The Silence in the Song
by myselfonly
Summary: Third in the Shadow series. Can an elf survive without hearing the Song? Can a dwarf overcome his own darkness? Legolas and Gimli find their way to Minas Tirith in search of peace and healing after the events of the summer. Trouble - as ever - finds them there, but whether their strength and friendship can survive yet another ordeal remains to be seen.
1. Chapter 1

**So here it is, the third installment of the Shadow series! ****A brief(ish) foreword before we crack on. **

**This story follows on from the first two tales: 'The Child and the Darkness' and 'The Path we Walk', and addresses the fallout from what happened in the summer. You know, whilst the boys get themselves into a whole load of trouble! For those of you who have not read either of the earlier tales, you may be okay but it would certainly help if you knew the characters and the background. Please don't let that put you off!**

**For the familiar faces that I hope have returned - welcome back! I've missed regular posting, and although I'm rather nervous about posting this I'm going to just go ahead anyway. Updates will not be as regular as they were for Paths, but I will make up for it by chapter size. They're all about the same length as this one.**

**This isn't a horror, this a mystery, and as such it's a different beast to the last two fictions but I really hope you enjoy it. I'm sure it'll end up with elements of horror in there anyway because I can't seem to help myself.**

**As always, my super special thanks go to Lindir's Ghost. She has been an ongoing support right from the outset and has kept me going. This story is for the vast majority un-beta'd, but you can tell the bits that she's looked through - they're the good ones.**

**Enough from me, let's get on with things!**

**MyselfOnly**

* * *

~{O}~

It is early autumn in north Ithilien, and the night is crisp and sharp.

The night sky above us is a wide sweep of burning lights, thrown like firebrands across the heavens, but the moon is naught but a thin cut of silver. My breath plumes before me when I turn from the warmth of the fire and so I tug my cloak tighter about me, settle down against a heavy log and try to find some measure of comfort. I can hear nothing but the occasional snort and stamp of our horses, the snap and shift of our fire, and when a breeze catches the trees about us there is a brittle rustling high above.

It is a beautiful night indeed, and it may well be the last that the elf ever sees.

He sits across from me, further back from the fire so that he is little but a silver limned ghost – more shadow than light. He still sits upright; tireless and straight as he stares up at the stars in the deepest of thought. In one hand he holds the small hunting knife that he normally keeps within his boot. It is nothing compared to the silver blades that sit beside him – they are beautiful things of deadly grace and he prizes them greatly – but it is elven made, and despite being wrought for function only it is still a pretty and delicate thing. He is spinning it idly in one hand. He does it to exercise his hands; to regain the dexterity and skill that is still stiff and dulled since our adventures this summer, but by Eru is it irritating me.

He flips and turns and catches the small knife – it is but a blur to me and he is not even looking. It slips between his fingers; a dancing blade that catches the firelight and momentarily blinds me once, twice and then again. He does not even think on what he does, he has more skill in damaged and broken hands than I will ever have in my life and it is driving me to distraction. He has been at it for hours!

I huff again, and I see that perhaps his mind is not so far away as I had thought. One distant eye twitches and I see his jaw clench, and I feel an odd sense of satisfaction that I irk him as much as I am irked. I would hate to be the only one so bothered.

The spinning of the knife does not abate and I am on my last nerve, frayed raw and thrumming with the need to speak. I open my mouth ready to say something – I know not what – but he anticipates my words. I am fixed with a glare so baleful and feral that any other being might quail and shake beneath the weight of it. The knife stops, is held downward and plunged firmly and certainly into the ground as though punctuating something that has not been said.

My friend looks at me as though he hides a thousand paces behind his gaze. I am a stranger, someone that he does not wish to be near, and he flows to his feet without a sound. He is gone into the night, and I am thankful.

~{O}~

We have been travelling for many weeks now in the company of none but each other. I would readily lay down my life for the elf but at the moment I do not know whether I like him, and the feeling certainly seems to be mutual. He is distant and cold – more ready to remove himself off into the dark wilds than spend time with me. I am snappy and irritable, and although I am sure that both he and I are cause for the consternation of the other we cannot seem to break the cycle. He is becoming far too ready to flee into the wood, and I am becoming too ready to let him.

I sigh again and stare into the flames. We cannot come to Minas Tirith too soon.

Legolas is haunted, I know that. I know that he barely sleeps and I know that whispers and darkness follow him like a shadow. I know that he requires patience and I know that I am perhaps the only thing walking upon Arda that understands what he fights to reconcile, but I am just one dwarf. I do not have the endless years that he has… I do not have the patience.

I wonder if our positions were reversed whether he would be a better friend to me than I am to him, and I know that he would. I am flawed and mortal, but he is aggravating and a complete mystery to me.

I break apart a small twig in my hands and throw it angrily toward the fire. It is light and small, and falls far astray.

_Damn him_.

Damn him for the guilt I feel lodged beneath my heart, for he knows well enough how he aggravates me and little does he attempt to soften it. I am starting to resent him, I know it. His burdens are mine to carry as well, but I do not know how to make peace with his shadows any more than he does. I am just one dwarf!

I lay my head back and see before me the full array of Gilthoniel's mantle. My heart hammers and my stomach tangles, and I am angry but I do not know why. I watch the stars and let my breathing calm, and for a time I wish that I could take comfort in them the way that my friend does.

My friend. _He is my friend._

"Legolas!" I call. I hear the frustration and annoyance in my voice, and so I soften it. "Legolas, I would speak with you."

I wait, and I wonder after a while whether he has chosen to ignore me but I do not have to wait for long. There is a flickering upon the edge of my sight; the soft nimbus glow of an elf in the dark… the softest of movements. I turn my head and I see him ghosting upon the furthest reaches of the firelight. He is careful, guarded. I wave him back to where he was sat before, not looking to see whether he obeys. I know that he will.

I watch the fire, and something within me relaxes and softens when I see on the edge of my eyesight that he approaches; sitting with a long weary sigh as though indulging a petulant child. I quell the irritation within me at the sigh and focus only on his presence here.

"Take up your knife again," I tell him with a vague wave of my hand. "Your left hand though… you favour your right."

He picks the knife out from the ground but does nothing more than inspect it in both hands. His brow is touched with the faintest furrow.

"We quarrel much, of late," he tells me. He speaks quietly but certainly, and of course the elf hits right at the heart of matters. It troubles him, I can hear it in his tone and when he looks up I am fixed with a focus that would take away the breath of any not so used to the weight of elven scrutiny. Instead I shrug and throw the rest of my twig into the fire. This time I throw certainly and carefully, and it lands dead centre within the flames.

"We have travelled too long together," I tell him. "Too long, and we are too different."

He snorts. "I have travelled decades with the same warriors without a single harsh word spoken. We have managed mere weeks!"

"Months," I correct him. "And elves deal far better with elves. Those of us from races more sensible can find the company of the Eldar taxing after just one conversation. I am to be lauded for my endurance, if for nothing else."

I look up at him and our eyes meet, and for a moment it is all washed away: his distance and wildness, my stubborn rudeness. All is gone. He grins, and his whole face softens into the elf I know better; the elf who is my friend. I feel my own face relax into a smile and it has passed. I feel a breeze shift through my beard, I smell the sharp autumn tang of leaf mould and a shiver runs through me, but I feel more rooted to the earth than ever I have. The Song of Mahal beats with the pulse of my heart, but there is no joy to it if it is weighed down by strife. Legolas gives me that strife, but also that joy. I cannot for all the words in the world explain how frustrating that is to me.

I watch him as he scrutinises the blade, rolling it from finger to finger and from hand to hand. That furrow still touches his brow and I wait; he is ready to speak but his thoughts are like crows upon a field; ready to scatter and flee at the first sudden movement. I wait, and when he speaks his voice is slow. He is thinking his words as he speaks them. It shows great trust that he feels no need to temper them as he would with another.

"You are too careful about me," he tells me: "too careful, and pulled tight as a bowstring."

It is perhaps more than I was expecting to discuss tonight, but he is not wrong. I think on it… he is not wrong at all.

"You were almost lost, Legolas."

He shoots a look at me and it is odd; is it part defiance, and part beseeching.

"But I was not," he speaks. "I am here, now, before you. I do not hold any blame for what occurred… or so you tell me."

"You were not," I agree. I shake my head most certainly – I feel it within every fibre of my being but I cannot meet his gaze right now. I finish with a murmur: "you were not to blame."

"Just as you were not to blame."

I think for a while on his words. I think of the many weeks in which we have travelled since leaving Mirkwood; the weeks that have moved into months in the blink of an eye and the many leagues passed behind us. I think of the shadow that my friend now wears about him; his lapses into dark thoughts that I must always be ready to pull him from; the new distance in his eyes; the nightmares. I think of my own as well. Is there any blame to be apportioned? I would say not, but within me I do not believe it to be entirely true.

I think on our more recent tendency to argue rather than to talk. I think on how easy it has been for me to fall into annoyance with him, how simple anger has been next to understanding. The Shadow is gone; burned and buried deep within the deepest parts of Arda far behind us, but still I feel its presence here. It has followed us every step of the way.

"This is not a discussion for tonight," I tell him, and I pull my cloak even tighter about me. I feel a chill.

"It is never a discussion for tonight, or any other night." He exhales loudly. He is frustrated with me. "Never do you shy from conversation this way; never have you been so unwilling to speak!"

"Perhaps it is the company and not the conversation!" I snap back, and the moment the words have escaped me I regret them. Ai, how I regret them! It is not true, _not true at all_ but he recoils as though I have slapped him. There is a moment when I see Legolas retreat, when I lose him. His eyes become cold again, his face fair marble and this time when he leaves I allow it. I do not call him back, and he does not return.

~{O}~

By morning I am gritty eyed and heart worn, and although the morning dawns fresh and sprightly there is nothing that can ease how heavy I feel. I have caught mere snatches of rest all of the night through; guilt has eaten at me and I have dreamed of my friend returning, of all being the way it once was, but with each waking I have been alone.

The sky is a sharp autumnal blue, white clouds scud swiftly past and the trees release a deluge of pale golden leaves with every breath of the wind. There is the scent of leaf and wood and it is beautiful, but I sit and I stare dumbly at the blackened fire that I allowed to go out sometime in the earliest part of the morning. A shock of birds startle from the trees: a huge number that sweep and play upon the air, filling the wood about me with chattering excitement. They will fly south soon, and they seem anxious to be gone. I do not blame them for a moment.

When my gaze returns earthward I am no longer alone. Legolas sits exactly as he was sat last night and the look I am fixed with is too penetrating and harsh for me to meet right now. His hair catches in the wind. He is a wild thing caught ready to flee and a countless leagues separate us right now.

"If I were to apologise, would you hear it?" I ask him quietly.

"It is an empty thing if you do not mean it," he informs me flatly. "You will say things that you regret before the day is through, and apologise again when your own heart is too heavy to bear it. I would rather Gimli were Gimli, instead of being Legolas."

There is no humour in it but I huff a laugh in any case. He is correct: I am acting like he is wont to; never before have I shied away from such things and I realise again that Legolas is capable of great understanding when he is forced to. He sees much, my friend.

"I do not know how to speak of anything I feel, Legolas." I tell him. I stand up simply for want of something to do with myself and begin to pack my things away. "Nothing that was done was done to me, nothing that you carry now can I understand for even a moment. I am angry, I will admit it, but am I angry at you? Eru only knows, but I can hardly shout at the horses."

He watches me a moment longer, and had I expected more conversation then I am disappointed. I fuss about, waiting for him to speak, and when I hear nothing I stand and look to him. I feel foolish for a moment; unsure of myself for the first time in memory with my blanket trailing from my arms and my cloak tangled uncomfortably by my haste. He is watching me with a look that I do not recognise, and I move from feeling foolish to feeling the familiar flushes of anger beginning to stir within me again. He speaks, and the annoyance is flattened by surprise.

"I shall fetch us some breakfast," he tells me, and he is up and loping away before I have a chance to gather my scattered thoughts. By his tone he is not fleeing, by the whistling I hear from a distance he has not gone to cool his temper. I sit heavily – my belongings still in my arms – and I sit with my thoughts a while. When he returns with early autumn fruits and berries he is as cheerful as though we have said nothing more than 'good morning' to one another.

I watch him and I realise after a moment that I am glaring. I cannot read the dratted creature at times and it is enough to have me ready to fly apart at the seams, but instead I watch him and I let myself calm. Legolas eats the berries first, for he has a taste for things that are sweet, and he watches the birds and the clouds pass by with bright eyes.

"That is all?" I ask carefully. He nods certainly, his gaze still upward.

"That is all," he agrees, "for now. I cannot swear to be less irksome, as it seems that my entire being is irksome to you and I know not how to change that. We cannot speak of what you do not understand, and I do not understand your oddities well enough to coax it from you. If you are to remain dwarf and I am to remain elf, then naught shall be resolved until you are ready to explain matters. So aye… that is all."

"For now," I smile. He nods quite seriously and I feel something in me lighten again. Elves! I cannot fault the logic for a moment, but I see a glimpse behind his struggle to understand the hearts of mortals. Complex matters confound him where complexity is unnecessary, and mortal hearts and minds are complex indeed. Legolas sees much, but where an elf can read an elf we are too confused and conflicted for his liking at times.

I trade him the last of my berries, and the smile I am given in thanks is worth it.

~{O}~

The wind has picked up by the time we are ready to leave and the skittering of the falling leaves, the wild hushing of the trees, the dancing of our own hair and clothing has both horses half wild. For Legolas, this means that his tall sable stallion is perhaps a little difficult to catch and perhaps more ready to play than to stand still. I myself am in for a miserable morning being bitten, trodden upon and then chasing angrily after my own little demon.

Naurwen is well named, for 'fire' she is and fire runs through her. She is small for an elven horse, but still tall enough for the fall from saddle to ground to hurt. She is flaming red chestnut, swift as the wind and I am inexplicably fond of her most days, but not today. Neither am I fond of the elf, who I can hear laughing as I chase her across a field of dancing deep grass.

In a fit of pique I have retrieved my axe, and I give chase as she circles about us. My hair has come loose and I take a moment, puffing and blowing to claw it out of my eyes.

"How do you wear your hair this way?" I demand of my friend. "I can see nothing!"

"Do not compare elven hair and dwarven as the same thing," he calls to me. "You have perhaps more in common with the horse, and you will not catch her by chasing her."

I know that I will not. I turn my head to hide my grin and chase off after my prancing mare, and when she calls out for the joy of it I shout right back at her. I feel as though the wind is clearing my mind of all manner of darkness and self-doubt and I feel the years strip away, leaving me just for a moment as a child without a care or a worry. If my kin could see me now I cannot imagine what they might think; I have become a decidedly elven dwarf of late, but we have only a week left to us until we reach Minas Tirith and there will be no playing in meadows for a while. Once surrounded again by stone and sensible company I will return to whatever senses I have left to me, but for this time until then I have no need to worry about my audience. Legolas thinks me a fool no matter what I do.

Eventually Naurwen believes that I have been exercised enough and allows me to fit both saddle and bridle, then I am forced to jog after her as she trots her own way to join Legolas and Neleth. Legolas does not ride with saddle, but if our mounts were swapped I believe he might reconsider his stance on this. She greets the elf with an affectionate whicker and butts her head to him, and I mutter beneath my breath most of the remainder of the morning.

The darkness does not touch Legolas during the day. He is much as he has ever been if a little more prone to introspection, but there is only a difference in him to those who know him well. To any other he is unchanged. If I had imagined that the imprisonment of the Shadow might release us from our fear of the night then I was wrong indeed. For no longer than a week did I fear the failing of the day for what the darkness brought us – not long at all after such a quest as the one for the Ring – but now I cannot remember a time before it. Legolas is scarred, deep within his fëa, and there is not a thing I can do to fix it.

But for now it is daylight, and neither of us quarrel, and it is a good day indeed.

The horses are highly strung and after a time I notice that the wind has the same effect in the elf, only he hides it far better. He is jumpy and there is a lot of the wildness in him today. We run the horses for a while if only to stop them from dancing so much, and I admit that it does me just as good as it does my friend. The wind that burns tears from my eyes is cold; it catches in my lungs and freezes my hands and cheeks. I do not think a single, solitary thought whilst we run like this and it feels good to know nothing but exhilaration and speed.

We run a long time – longer than either of us perhaps intended – and the horses blow and wheel when we are through. The elf is wildness itself when he looks to me; his eyes are bright and frightening and his grin is that of the hungriest wolf. I expect that I am a bristling mass of windblown red, with ruddy cheeks and running nose but he looks at me as though our experience of this mad freedom is the same. I am not sure that it is, but I feel fondness for this exasperating creature again. Our experience has not been the same, but it is something that we have both needed so very much.

We stop early, well before the sun has set. I have announced that I will not go another night eating like a bird or an elf on naught but fruit and seeds, and Legolas has obligingly caught me a brace of hares if only to silence me. We find a fine shaded fen, more open to the sky than enclosed, and once the horses are released to their own devices I set about cooking us a hearty meal. I have collected a number of wild vegetables these last days and all go well into the pot, and whilst Legolas spends the last hours of the day communing with squirrels or however it is that he uses his time, I sit and smoke my pipe in comfort.

There is a fire beside me, a good meal cooking away, a pipe to smoke with no elf to complain about it... what else might a dwarf want in life? I reach within me and seek out the deep, thrumming song of Mahal as it sounds through all of Arda. I feel it in the steady beat of my heart and the blood that courses through me, and I feel myself once more a dwarf… more so than I have at any point today.

The frantic dervish of the trees sings without stirring anything within me now. I hear it, but I do not allow it to take my mind. Today was today, and no more to be said about it. Tonight I must be Gimli again, and tomorrow, and the days beyond.

I smile to myself and I settle back against the stoutness of a wide and old tree. There is a thing to be said for the madness of elves, but let the elves have their ways. To be a dwarf is a fine enough thing for me.

~{O}~

Once we have eaten and the sun has all but set I notice that something is missing and look up from my thoughts. Legolas does not sing, he does not hum, he does not check his weapons or any of the usual things he does of an evening. I look to him and his eyes are not on the stars. He sits in a very low branch, barely a few feet from the ground but his gaze is downcast, shuttered and dark. He flexes and clenches his hands, just as he always does; feeling the stiffness of them and easing it as best he can. I see the scarring upon those hands and I look away again. Instead I throw a stone at him.

I have yet to hit him – he is too nimble – but every time his reaction is the same. He makes barely a movement yet always the stone sails past his head, and always he looks to me with betrayal as though I am repeatedly trying to brain him.

"Your thoughts, Legolas," I warn him, and there is weariness to my tone: "turn them elsewhere. Play with your knife."

This time his look is incredulous and I huff through my beard. Perhaps this time the look I am being given is earned.

"I shall not become vexed," I promise.

"It is not the Shadow that I hear tonight Gimli," he tells me, settling back against the tree but he reaching for his knife in any case. He must exercise his hands, especially now that the weather turns colder. Legolas does not feel the chill as I do, but such damaged and broken hands will note the difference in the weather even if he does not. He spins it once, a lazy movement. "In truth, it is my father that I hear."

"He has a long reaching voice, to be heard from Mirkwood." I sprawl myself even further into the pocket of warmth that I have found and consider whether it is worth lighting my pipe again.

"You are ridiculous, at times." Legolas sighs.

"And what does your far reaching father have to say?" I ask him. "I cannot imagine anything pleasant. Despite the friendship we have Legolas, I cannot promise to be there at your side when you see him again. I imagine he is much vexed by now, and I fear Thranduil."

He snorts, and I can read it as well as if he had spoken.

"It is not cowardice," I shake my head. "It is prudence, and you would do well to think similarly."

"Then I will not be there either," he smiles. He still is not himself though, not quite. I wait for him to speak, knowing that he finds it difficult but that he will eventually put voice to what ails him during the hours of night. Legolas, for all of his faults and differences, understands why he must.

"It is there, though," he speaks finally: "it is a disturbed cobweb; the softest of whispers but I know that it is there and it is listening. Whilst I think of my father and my home, of my mother and my friends it _listens_… listens to things I would not have sullied or seen by such darkness. I would rather be alone with my thoughts again. I would be washed clean and rid of this stain in a moment if I could."

He shudders and his hands have stopped flexing, stopped toying with his blade. Instead they are clenched and fisted… the only sign of the struggle within himself; the fight to remain collected and calm. He is angry, but he is strong enough to manage his own heart. It is distraction that is my role.

"Does it lessen the further we travel?"

"Not with distance," he shakes his head. "With time, though. It is as though it falls slowly into sleep… although far too slowly."

"Then Lasgalen is not ruined for you – it is a worry you had. You should be happy in that, at least."

He gives me a smile and it is weak but warm. His hands loosen, flex once and then resume their exercises with the blade. He leans his head back against his tree, and finally his gaze rises to the stars. I see the winter pale glow of him strengthen as he reflects the mantle of Elbereth, and I know that it is not just the stars with which he has distracted himself. He listens to the green and silver Song of Iluvatar, and I am relieved.

"You must swear something to me, Gimli," he speaks, and does not wait for me to answer. "Swear that you will not tell Estel how deeply the Shadow has settled within me. I have sworn that I will not sail whilst he is king, but he bears much guilt that I remain on his account. He will be unbearable if he realises the sea longing is only part of the price that I pay to remain here."

"I will not lie to him, Legolas."

"Then do not, but also do not tell him all. I wish to spend some time in distraction with my friends, not spend tireless hours of it dredging up that which I have spent months trying to forget. I will tell him myself one day, but it is still too near and I do not wish to speak of it."

He will speak of it with me, though. I think on that for a moment but discard it after a while for later consideration – it is a strange understanding and one I am unsure of.

"I can swear only to parts of what you ask then, my friend. It will be a loose and difficult oath to hold to."

"Then make no oath, for I have trust in you."

An oath might be easier to abide by. To swear to something and then go back upon your word is a blight upon your honour, carried with you all of your days. A broken trust is far, far worse.

"Then you must trust that whatever I do, it will always be because I believe it to be the best thing for you. Even should you not understand it at the time." I tell him. "Aragorn cares for you although I sometimes wonder why."

Legolas smiles but his focus now is upon the stars, and I know that our conversation on the matter is over. I would speak more with him, but to push him now would be of little use. I settle down for the night and think a while again on why I feel as I do – about my guilt and anger – and still I cannot resolve what it is that stokes such a fire within me. I am resolved to think on it and to unravel it – both the elf and I deserve no less – but I cannot make sense of it and I feel myself pushed toward sleep.

Although our quarrel has been put to rest for now I still dream poorly; I dream again and again of those days we spent hounded by the Shadow. I see my friend's face, and I see something else looking back at me through his eyes. I see him taken by it, over and over again in my mind and each time it is no different – I cannot stop it from happening.

I wake in the early hours of the morning to find him gone. It is not unusual; Legolas watches over me no matter where he roosts, but he sleeps little these days and I would not begrudge him the solace that the forest grants him. Even so, I feel worry bite at me until he returns.

~{O}~

We ford the Anduin at our leisure and leave the woods. The river now separates us from darker lands and although the elf is uncomfortable to be out of the trees, I believe that he feels much as I do. We have had too much darkness, and it is good to be travelling away from it. I see him casting his gaze over his shoulder from time to time and the Ephel Duath is a hazy smear of shadow upon the horizon. Far clearer, I am sure, in his eyes. I tell him to keep his eyes frontward, and he obliges without a word.

He tells me that he can smell the woods of the Druadan Forest to the west – I cannot even see the slightest sign of them – but we have had enough diversions and we continue. Mount Mindolluin rises in the furthest distance, the great city fortress still indistinct but the mountain is there and it is a beacon to us. We hurry; I am eager for a warm bed and a flask of ale with company that I can become lost in. I do not doubt for a moment that the elf hurries only on my account and is not as anxious to be within a city of stone the way that I am, but he has promised me this and he wishes to see Aragorn just as I do.

We camp one night in the open and Legolas is as twitchy as a rabbit. I feel myself become irritated with him again. He is silent and cold, his stars are veiled to him and it threatens rain all the night through. A wind passes that is not the friendly wind it has been, but rather relentless and bitter. He tells me that it carries spoil and ruin – it has come past the Pelennor and Osgiliath – and there are whispers in the wind.

I feel only wind against me, I smell and hear nothing and his words grate my nerves raw. I would hear nothing from him of ghosts that I cannot see, for what use is a haunting that cannot be perceived? He is ill at ease and perhaps hears whispers that are not there… perhaps the whispers are within him, perhaps the darkness is his and only made real by the absence of starlight. Perhaps I am being unkind.

I wish for a moment that he might keep such things silent. I cannot fix him, I cannot feel what he feels nor can I see what he sees. He has fought this whole way without a word that I have not had to force from him, why does he break his silence now?

I feel guilt bite at me again then and the cycle continues. I am angry at him, I am angry at myself, I swim in guilt and neither of us is any closer to healing. I keep my silence, I ignore him as best I can and sleep knowing that he cannot.

~{O}~

By the time darkness falls the next night our journey is over, we have reached our destination.

The sunset falls slowly over the peak of Mindolluin although we are already in darkness upon the plain. Sunlight glints upon the highest reaches, a cut of gold against the darkening skies where late autumn sun sets the reaches burning. It is Minas Anor, the Tower of the Setting Sun indeed, and it is a sight to behold. The city dominates the landscape, ring after ring rising up above the field that we ride upon. The Pelennor, a place of mourning now but there is little to show for the destruction that lay here the last time I rode upon it. Fires still smouldered then, bodies littered the floor in a number so great that they ceased to be man or orc, friend or foe… they were simply sad and dead things. Great beasts and small, battle engines and endless flames burned here. Now it is just grass, just a field.

I push the images from my mind, sparing a moment to glance at my friend and his eyes burn in a resolute face. We were not here for the battle that we saw the aftermath of, but our own battle was much the same. All battles are much the same.

We focus on the white city instead and I feel so very small before it. It is a place of hope; defiant it stands and unconquered it remains. There is scarring, aye, any with eyes can see the damage to the city but there is also a great deal that has already been rebuilt. It was a half empty place of ghosts once, but now the ghosts walk with the living and Minas Tirith is a place of colour and sound again. Folk flock to the city to live and to trade, and its rings are filled with new voices and new life.

The reign of King Elessar will be one of providence and glory, I need none to tell me that.

We are allowed entry at the barricade that stands where once the Great Gates stood. They remain there still, set to one side; great things, barred and riveted with good steel but splintered and torn to tinder. No one has removed them, for what is to be done with them? One with skill might rebuild them, one who knows metal and stone might create gates the likes of which have never been seen, but none has yet to try it. I might like to meet the man who does, for it is a task that tickles at my imagination and stirs at my mind. I might like to speak with him very much.

Once within the city we find our way to the third ring – an adequate height I feel – and I stop us. I would visit a tavern, and I would see the city at sunset just for a short time before we are closeted away. It has been a hard ride and I wish to take a time to breathe. Legolas indulges me with a nod.

The horses are stabled by a young boy who seems unsure what to do with the towering sable giant nor the bad tempered red thing, and I must help Legolas interpret which coins he must give the stable lad for his efforts. The boy is almost the recipient of fully half of our coinage before I intercept, and then I hurry my way to the city wall where I stop and all falls to stillness within me.

Dwarves are not meant for height, but within the earth there are places that fall so deep that the very scale and scope of Arda beneath can cause a man to lose himself for a spell. Minas Tirith does not feel to me as an open place, for I feel the Song of Mahal all about me here. It is a merging of worlds; there is the wind of the high places that ruffles my hair and my cloak about me, the scent of wind and rain to come. Beneath me I feel the rock and stone echoing down, down deep through the mountain and into the land that stretches out before me in glory. Light still hits the highest of places despite that the sun is mostly set, and I can still see the land about me – like a vast and green carpet, rolling in hills and rising in peaks. We are only three levels up – just three levels – but it is a thing of wonder.

I turn to my side where I know my friend will be; where he always is. Legolas is sat with his legs crossed upon the wall, gazing out at the sight just as I am. He has pulled the hood of his cloak up about his head to cover his countenance but the effort is wasted. Any who see him know him for an elf, hood or no hood. What man would sit so on a wall this narrow, and with such a fall below? It is thicker at the base, tapering here to a ledge only half a pace across but I have never seen my friend fall, never from any height.

When he turns to look at me with brightness to his eyes and a smile upon him I must show some trace of the horror that I feel seeing him there. He rolls his eyes and climbs down to stand beside me, his elbows resting instead against the wall. He thinks my heart faint and querulous when it comes to the higher places. I think that he would be more respectful had he the sense to realise the danger he is in.

We are receiving looks already. The darkness hides what would be clearer in full daylight, but there are people still about and I am quite plainly a dwarf, and he is quite visibly an elf. My axe is swung about my shoulders and Legolas is fully armed with knives, bow and quiver. We must be a strange sight indeed, but I turn my attention back to see the setting sun.

"There is a thing to be said for this," Legolas admits. "I still cannot understand fully why any would choose to live so removed from the wood, but Iluvatar's Song is here just as it always is. Not so loud and not so bright, but it is there."

"Then I might be spared your sighing and moping whilst we are here?" I ask. "I will admit, I have been practising our arguments ready for it."

"Aye, Gimli," he laughs, and it is light and pleased. I find that I mirror him with a smile of my own. "Providing I can see such sights as this then I will spare your ears as best I can. I shall see much of the stars from here I would imagine, much as I did from the height of Meduseld although what I saw there was dark."

"We are in brighter times now, my friend. Come – I am sure that word of our arrival is making its way into royal ears even as we stand here idling; I would have a drink in peace before we are collected."

~{O}~

The tavern that we find is small but busy; thick with the sound and smell of ale and men. I find us a private booth with a small and heavily scored table near to the fire, but the seats by the window are taken and so Legolas must make do. The men are loud; singing songs after their fashion and making much of a racket, but the flagstone floor is scrubbed and surprisingly clean, and the ale is very good indeed.

Even so, Legolas sits and regards his drink as though I have served him a mug of animal innards.

I might have fetched him some wine – indeed, they serve wine – but this is far more enjoyable. I pretend that I do not see his distaste. I feign an eagerness for him to enjoy the drink that I have bought for him, and to force his hand out of politeness I hold out my tankard for a toast. I see only the faintest glimmer of helpless horror behind his gaze as he realises that he must drink. He counters the toast and sips gingerly, but holds the ale in his mouth for a long time before swallowing. Eru bless his ears… the look that he tries to hide is worth every step we have taken up to this moment. I laugh, and I cannot help myself. I laugh long and loud and every part of me shakes with my mirth.

My friend watches me with a furrowed brow and a smile that says he understands what I have done, but not why.

"I shall never understand the fondness you and Estel have for this brew," he muses, mostly to himself as I am still finding my composure. "That was cruel of you, Gimli."

"Forgive me, Legolas," I chuckle still for a while longer. "You are a far better friend than I am to you; I wished only to see if you would drink. I should have stopped you when I saw that you would."

"Now that it is out of your system need I take more or have I passed your test?" His voice is clipped and tart but there is affection in the look I am given. He shakes his head – I know that I make no sense to him but he will endure it to hear me laughing. He has told me before that I am far too serious. It is good to prove him wrong at times.

We fall into companionable silence, and Legolas spends his time watching the crowd whilst trying to seem as though he does not. At the latter he fails terribly – I do not think Legolas realises what it feels like to be pinned beneath his gaze, but he will ever be a scout. He cannot spend any time in any place without watching, listening… remaining alert all of the time we are there. It is a safe feeling, to be under the watch of those eyes, but it is easy to fall into poor habits. I find that I rely too heavily upon his vigilance at times. I fall far more swiftly into my thoughts or musings knowing that nothing will go unseen. I turn my attention to him for want of anything better to do, although I make no production of it. I watch without watching, which is the better way to avoid his annoyance.

A thing is dropped and his attention is upon it. A voice is raised and it is to that which his gaze springs. He is blinded and senseless by the fume of pipe smoke, of the smells of men and the clatter and loudness of it all, and I know my friend well enough to know that he feels threat where there is no threat at all. He watches everything, and for a time I think that he may simply leave me and flee, but I wait. I no longer underestimate my elf, and I can see that the fingers of one hand trace the grain of wood in the table, grounding him. His nose flares as he catches whatever scents come in through the window and I give him a moment to focus, to regain his composure. He remains seated.

Satisfied that he is not about to leap through a window I turn my attention away to give some semblance of privacy. He is laid bare right now, and I have respect enough for him not to watch him tame his own heart.

I see the men about me and I recognise that there is something amiss, now that I look. Legolas says that I cannot even sense rain until it is falling upon my head, but whether it is my friend making me jumpy or not I feel that perhaps something is awry. I look about me at the men with whom we share this evening, and in time I find that my gaze rests in just one place.

There is a group of men by the far wall, just as there are groups of men everyplace I cast my eye, but this time my attention is captured. There is a younger man; fresh from the road and dusty just as we are dusty. He wears greens and browns and his hair is a soft, pale brown, but his features capture my attention for a moment.

There is a hint of Númenor about the cast of his face; his brow is high and he is fair as much as men can be fair. Even so, he is quite drunk and surrounded by men that I do not believe to be friends of his. They are roughshod and heavy-set, with tangled black locks and the harsh, loud voices of men who have spoken loudly and harshly all of their days. They are ruddy from working outdoors and they look upon the lad as though he has angered them. There is violence in the air. I see restraint in them, but the more the lad speaks the less willing they seem to turn a deaf ear. I continue to watch until my drink is half gone, and then I put it to one side.

It is unexpected when it happens, despite my attention. There is a shout and a clatter of wood upon flagstone as one of the larger men shoves at the young man, who is far too deep in his cups to keep his balance. He falls into another man who knocks over a stool, and then all is shouting and havoc. It is quick; perhaps I have given men too little credit in sensing what has been building… certainly they are ready for a brawl. The affronted man shoves back, the lad falls against another whose drink is spilled and a punch is thrown. It connects upon the wrong jaw, and suddenly violence erupts all about us. A lamp is knocked in the melee and a carelessly stored cloak catches, and now there is fire.

Moments it has been, mere moments and now all about us are shouting and shoving and fighting. I am astounded. How has such a pleasant evening turned so swiftly?

"This is how you choose to spend your free time?" Legolas gestures out at the unpleasantness as though it proves a point he has not yet made.

I feel my bewilderment collapse instantly into irritation and set to a lengthy and aggrieved grumbling about men and elves... mostly elves. I am to my feet and heading toward the door without stopping to check that he follows, and I hear a light laugh at my back that simply serves to aggravate me all the more. I shove men from my path without apology or grace and they fall from my way, and when I am to the door that too is shoved far harder than I had perhaps intended.

The night air is crisp and sharp when I finally fight my way free; there is a tang of wood smoke and a brittle quality to the air that speaks perhaps of frost tonight. When my friend joins me in the spilled light from the tavern he drinks the air as though it is the first he has tasted, and then curls up his nose at the smell of his own clothing. Outside we are bathed in lamplight and the noise from the tavern is concerning but far removed now. I hear shouting and crashing, but we may as well be a thousand leagues away.

I see that my friend has made a diversion in his exit from the place.

"What have you there?" I demand. I am still unwilling to let go of the annoyance I feel, but it is not him in whom I am annoyed. What a waste of a good pint of ale!

Legolas looks down and drops the young man who I am fairly certain started the brawl in the first place. He is young, and our young warrior is far too drunk to have escaped this battle unscathed. Nevertheless he lands upon the cobbles heavily and crawls from where he has been deposited to rest himself against the city walls, gulping down air as though drowning. I nudge at him with my boot.

"Oi, laddie. You there. You are well enough to walk?"

"I am well enough to crawl, perhaps," the youth groans, and Legolas moves aside to allow me to deal with his stray. He has performed the rescue, and I must deal with the consequence. He is given a stern look and he meets it with no expression at all.

"Thank you, friends," the youth speaks airily to us both: "I meant for none of this. Perhaps I misjudged the friendliness of those in the city, I certainly misjudged my own capacity for ale."

He laughs but it is light; he is not as drunk as he seems and I cannot find it in me to wonder at his deception. Instead I huff through my beard.

"You have ruined a perfectly good evening for my friend and I, and my ale was barely half drunk," I grumble instead. The youth flits one hand in a gesture that could be a dismissal or an apology. I have only just begun to consider which it might be before my friend speaks the lightest whisper at my shoulder.

"Gimli we are caught," Legolas tells me softly, and indicates his meaning when I look to him for it. Above us on the fourth ring come guards upon horseback, and they will be with us in little time at all from the speed in which they travel.

"You are certain that they come for us?" I ask him in the same low tone.

"They are in full livery and they ride as though our friend's words burn in their ears."

There is a hint of mirth in his voice but I sigh and straighten. I am disappointed to be captured so soon after such an evening so unfulfilled, but I feel a touch of anticipation nevertheless. It has been a while since we have seen Aragorn.

"Gimli?" the youth asks, almost forgotten at my feet. "You are Gimli Gloinson, of the nine walkers?"

"Aye lad," I reply, although I pay little attention to him now. The night can take him; he is well enough to tend to his own affairs for we have our own to conduct.

"And you would be Prince Legolas, of the Woodland Realm," the youth continues. I feel annoyance now that he continues to speak when I am trying to gauge when the riders might arrive. Might we have time to hide? It is unseemly, certainly, but the nature of quarry is to flee and quarry we are right now.

"He is hardly Lord Elrond that is for certain," I bite and then turn to the elf: "come, I would not have them find us outside a brawling tavern."

But it is too late. The guards are upon us, and it all we can do just to present as dignified a front as we are able whilst to our right, the sounds of crashing and fighting sails out into the night. I clear my throat uncomfortably as the riders dismount.

I do not recognise the guard that approaches us but he looks painfully young to me. He is dressed in the livery of the city guard but it is very clean and very new, and he adjusts it as though he is still unaccustomed to it. War makes men of boys, that is certainly true, but I feel a momentary surge of annoyance that Aragorn has sent this child to greet us. It feels like a slight, and I know he does it to show that he is grieved with us. With the elf, more than likely, though I do not understand why I must share in his disgrace.

The guard seems ill at ease as he approaches. Legolas stands behind my shoulder, watching; he will always take position where he believes himself most unobserved but instead he is a distraction. I know that he must seem alien and unwelcoming to these men, just as I once found him to be… as I still find him at times.

I know how we must appear. We are travel stained and worn, we are armed, we stand over a clearly intoxicated youth who still bleeds from his altercation and the tavern beside us still smells of flames. As we stand in discomfort, there is a great crash and a man falls bodily through the tavern door to land in an unconscious heap upon the floor. I do not remove my eyes from the guard. He clears his throat.

"Welcome to Minas Tirith," he offers weakly.

~{O}~

We are given very little time to take in the city now that our escort has arrived. We ride up through the rings, right to the seventh level where our mounts are taken for more kingly stables and then we are ushered inside. All is a whirl of clattering hooves and anxious men, all of whom seem nervous about something and I see the elf watching about him… he sees something that I do not. His eyes narrow in suspicion but I have no time to ask what troubles him.

We are given no chance to stop and refresh ourselves, nor are we shown to our quarters but rather collected by another strikingly young guard who is to be our guide this evening. We have been here before of course for Aragorn's coronation and wedding, but it is rude indeed to harry us through the corridors this way. Legolas still says nothing, but I find that I must fill this silence with my complaints for what else am I to do? I am unsettled and anxious and I know not why, and so I voice these feelings as loudly as I may. To whence do we go? Why are we not given time in which to refresh ourselves? Are all men of Gondor such poor hosts, and as such, where is their lord? I am given muttered apologies but naught much else; they lead us ever onward through this stone maze but I continue my rebukes because it gives me comfort to do so.

King Elessar's home is regal enough, in the way of men. I have never found their tastes particularly fine to behold, but they enjoy them well enough and so I endure. Plain walls adorned with tapestries and standards appeal to some, I am told. All is dry and angular, built to reflect strength and past glory rather than to display the fine stone that wrought the place. It feels dusty, deep and endless, and the stone speaks of the passing of a great many men. Sound echoes here; the scuffing of feet and distant voices, the sounds of horses from the stables and the faint ringing of metal meeting metal, all confused and melding together.

We are deep within the mountain and we travel upward, but despite my own misgivings I start to feel concern for one other. I look to the elf, trapped and far from his Song. He has the same look upon him that he has worn all night; his eyes burn with a _laegrim_ fire that speaks of wildness and danger. He is deeply annoyed just as I am that we are dragged so unceremoniously through these passages, but he is also buried within stone, which he has no love for. He is terrible to behold right now and the guards that lead him seem frightened. I wonder if this is their first elf.

I catch his eye and cast him a look that is a question, and he nods an answer although it seems jerky and unnatural.

"Hoy… you!" I call to those who lead us. "Tell us where we go or lead us no more, I know well enough where the kitchens are and will go there without a guide if need be. My friend and I have travelled far and we have no patience for the games of your king."

"We are here, my lord," is the curt reply, but the young guard looks apologetic in his own way. His journey has been just as unhappy as ours as been.

We are at a doorway, and we are divested of our weapons and told they will be in our quarters ready for us. I am done with this nonsense but it is my friend who strides past me without pause for an announcement. Legolas moves forth with all of the defiance of his birth and race, past the guards who shrink from him as he goes and I find myself swept up on his heels in the passing.

The room is surprisingly small; perhaps ten paces from door to wall but it is comfortable in a way that the rest of this stronghold is not. It is not overly indulgent or opulent, and there is a decidedly elvish cast to the décor but it is mannish enough for one to compliment the other. I know not if this is Aragorn's influence or Arwen's, but the windows are wide open despite the chill air, with thick drapes that billow in the breeze and I know the touch of an elf when I see it. A large hearth burns and comfortable chairs are arranged about the room, with a heavy desk unobtrusively pushed into the corner and covered with papers. Shadows dance about the room but they are not worrisome at all; they are a result of the light, and not an absence of it.

The elf is in high agitation. I look and I see again a suspicion upon him, but also an annoyance that he has been summoned like an errant child. Lord Ionwë has said to me that Legolas' inability to check his temper when slighted is a failing in his upbringing but I cannot find it in myself to fault him. I am tense and ready for words certainly, but I feel my demands die on my lips and my anger trip and choke me when I see the occupants of the room. It dies not at all – I am all the angrier in fact – but I am hobbled… forced to remain silent in my anger.

The anxiety of the guards, the summoning and rushed march without a chance to catch even a breath… I finally understand the suspicion that I have seen in the elf.

King Thranduil is here.

TBC

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**MyselfOnly**


	2. Chapter 2

I know not where to look first.

The room that I find myself in is of good space but it feels as though I am crammed cheek by jowl with a hundred men, or perhaps shut in with a brewing thunder storm. There is Aragorn, looking for all of the world as though he would be any place else right now if only he could. The look he gives the elf is a silent cry for leniency, a plea for help but he is given no quarter. Legolas is all aflame, I can see it in the cold of his eyes and the set of his jaw; the same air of wildness that has had our vanguard all a-skitter the whole way here, but any words that he may have for the ranger king of Gondor are frozen in his chest. King Thranduil is here, and he is the same heavy presence that he always is.

I cannot tell the look upon his face for it is flat and cool – so much like his son – but the weight of his gaze sits upon the woodland prince alone, and I am quite thankful for it. The occupants of the room are motionless; a thousand moments pass without a word being spoken but so much is said that I can barely follow it.

Aragorn looks at Legolas as though to say_: 'no hand have I had in this! I am to be rescued and not held to blame!'_

Legolas speaks of a hundred, thousand ways in which the man is indeed at fault and demands to know what betrayal this is.

King Thranduil is inscrutable and I cannot read any part of him, but the look that he fixes upon his son and heir is ripe with meaning. No word has the woodland king had of his son since we escaped our escort back to his palace, only reports of the condition we were both in at the time. I might imagine that any father might be pushed to temper now, seeing Legolas hale and whole after months of imaginings on his whereabouts. To say that he is vexed is perhaps the same as saying 'the sea is vast' or 'an elf is odd'. The words do not do any justice to the truth.

I take a seat by the fire, turning it toward the three of them with a loud scraping and I settle myself for some entertainment. The movement breaks the spell and Legolas sinks to one knee in a show of respect to his king, whilst still managing to keep his baleful glare upon Aragorn.

"To your feet Legolas, you are dirtying Estel's floor," Thranduil instructs curtly, just as Aragorn says:

"There was no time to warn you!"

There is a moment's pause before Legolas speaks, his tone somehow both honeyed and respectful, yet also curt and cold.

"I might not be dirtying the floor, my king, had I not been harried here by guards upon the moment of arrival," he says, then turns to Aragorn: "and perhaps given time, I might have been given proper tidings of my father's presence here."

"Perhaps if you had spent less time brawling in taverns, then you might have had better time in which to prepare yourself."

"Forgive me but I was in a tavern where a brawl occurred, not in a brawl myself. Gimli wished to sample the hospitality of Minas Tirith – we were but victims of circumstance."

"Speak not of Gimli," I interject quickly. "I am but a lowly dwarf and have no place in conversations between royalty – of men or of elf."

The elfling fastens me with the same look of annoyed betrayal before the elven king speaks again, thankfully to his son once more. Aragorn has started to sidle apart from the two. He looks miserable.

"I should be thankful that you arrived at all," Thranduil speaks coolly. "I have been here a week already… yet another scouting party was due to be sent out to find whatever remained of you this time."

"We made no great haste here, my king." Legolas answers flatly and briefly, his tone beaten. He can be quick witted at times, and Thranduil is not to be pacified yet. There is still a great deal to be said between father and son and none of it looks to be pleasant. I know little of Thranduil, but I know much of his son and they are so very similar that I recognise the look upon the elven king's face: he is furious, and he is barely holding in place a respectable front.

"My lord king," Aragorn speaks quickly. "I shall leave you a time with your son, I am sure that you have much to catch up on."

This time the only sign Legolas gives of any feeling regarding our escape is the slightest twitch of one hand. Thranduil says not a thing but watches us steadily in silence as though waiting for us to leave, and although I would be quite happy to remain and watch, I am grabbed by my jerkin and pulled to my feet so that I have no choice but to follow.

"Do not go far, Estel." Thranduil speaks as we go. "I would speak with you and with Master Gimli once I am through with my son."

Matters no longer seem so amusing, and when Aragorn leads me to a smaller chamber through a previously unseen door we both walk heavy with dread. A solid door is shut between us and Aragorn drops gracelessly into a chair before the fire. He slouches and does not look like a king to me right now. He looks worn and tired and I wonder how this week has been for him, alone with a presence such as the woodland king. I cannot imagine that it has been pleasant.

"Ousted from my own audience chamber," he sighs wearily. "I do not believe I will ever stop feeling as a child before Thranduil."

"I think perhaps Legolas feels the same," I grin to myself. I take a seat by his side and help myself to some of the wine that sits between us. Aragorn's face pulls into a silent laugh and I finally see my friend before me. I pour him a drink also.

There is a quiet between us for a while but it is not unpleasant. I cannot help but strain to hear any whisper of what is being spoken in the next room, but the walls and door are stout and no sound reaches us here. I sigh.

"How are things, in truth?" he asks me, and I pause for a spell quite unsure of my answer. I hear Legolas' voice, asking that I do not tell our friend all that has passed, and I hear him placing his trust that I will abide by his wishes. I am torn indeed, for I would speak freely with Aragorn as I can with so few these days.

"What have you learned of what passed this summer?" I ask instead. I see him from the corner of my eye; I would perhaps look at him in the same way if he were to answer a question with a question – and such a cautious one at that – but he answers readily.

"Only those details which Thranduil has seen fit to tell. He learned from Ionwë what occurred, but of course I am naught but a lowly king of Gondor and not party to all that much."

I hear frustration in his tone. His words are those of a spurned youth, kept ignorant by his elders, but I know my friend well enough to see past it and know only his concern for us, and so I tell him. I tell him everything from the moment we left upon our ill-fated hunting trip until our escape to Minas Tirith, and by Eru does it feel good to speak of it. Aragorn is silent and allows me freedom to tell the tale in my own way, giving me time to think where I have yet to reconcile events in my own mind and giving a nod of encouragement when I falter. I feel the words falling from me, as though a dam has been broken and with each thing told I feel a weight lifted from my shoulders. It takes less time to tell than I had imagined, and although reliving those terrible days is difficult my heart is a far lighter thing once I am done.

The silence I am met with is musing, and I allow Aragorn his time to think. He watches the fire with an expression I know very well. I am forced to recall another time during another cold night lit by another fire, but in times far darker and with none of the comforts we have here to hand. I speak again.

"We quarrel, now," I tell him. "Legolas is a difficult creature to be around, you know it just as I do, but never have I felt such ill feeling toward him as I have since leaving Eryn Lasgalen."

"Legolas is Legolas," is the mysterious response. "He is slow to change and long formed in his ways, never should we imagine anything different from him. Not in the days that we will live."

"But he is changed," I sigh, "just as I am changed. I would have had him remain himself for all of his time remaining here, but I could not stop what happened to him."

"And perhaps Frodo might be more whole now were I quicker on Weathertop," Aragorn counters, but he is kind. "Perhaps Faramir might still have a brother had I seen more clearly the heart I travelled with for weeks by my side. We can become heart sick and broken if we allow ourselves to be haunted by what might have been done differently."

"You do not understand," I shake my head woefully, and the moment the words pass my lips I regret them. I have told Aragorn nothing of what Legolas carries with him now – I have kept my word wholly – but perhaps I have allowed myself too much freedom. Aragorn, for all of his faults, is quick and clever and his gaze now is assessing.

"How so?" he asks. "I would hear it, if you might tell me."

I cannot think of anything to say that will not further deepen this hole, and so I shake my head unhappily. What a miserable conversation we find ourselves in! Aragorn takes in my studious examination of the fire, the stout grip I have upon my goblet and he thankfully lets the matter drop. When he turns away I take a moment to take a breath and to banish these dark thoughts. I am with my friend, I am finally in Minas Tirith… this should be a moment of joy!

"How fares Arwen?" I ask, and it has the required effect. I take a moment to take note of it; any disagreements with Aragorn should be met with this same question. Any trace of the cunning and quick ranger king is gone when it comes to his wife – he turns right before my eyes into a smitten boy. I cannot help but smile to myself whilst I am regaled by details of the queen I know so little of, and I allow my mind to drift whilst I listen with half an ear to the voice of my friend.

Aragorn will not push me into speaking if I do not wish to speak, but what of Thranduil? If Legolas' father asks me directly how his son fares, might I lie? I do not know if I am able; I certainly do not wish to. If Legolas sits telling his father of his woes right now then I might be spared – certainly Ionwë knows what has befallen the horrid elf and I do not imagine him particularly reticent in the telling of our tale; not to his closest friend and king. If Thranduil chooses to speak to Aragorn then well he may do so, I am not one to stop it, but this is not Legolas' wish. If Aragorn finds out some later day, long from now, that we three conspired to keep this matter from he alone then I can imagine his heart fairly well stung by it.

I know quite well that Legolas knows nothing of the knots he has tied me in. I can hear his voice now, saying: _'but Gimli, I ask only a simple silence from you! What person would question the keeping of a promise?'_ and it will be that simple to him. He understands nothing of the unpleasantness that can be caused to the keeper of such a secret, nor the hurt to those from whom the truth is kept.

_Ai, Legolas. Such secrets should not be kept between friends, and friends should not be asked to keep them._

I realise suddenly that it is quiet. Aragorn has stopped speaking and is looking at me, clearly expecting a response, and I can do naught but blink at him dumbly. He has a bemused look and he shakes his head before returning his attention back to the fire.

"You have spent too much time with him," he announces quite certainly. "You are picking up his bad habits."

I snort, far too loudly and then curse myself. I truly am becoming too much like the elf, although it is quite gladly only in manner and not in mind.

"We all adapt in trying times and with trying company," I admit woefully. "In any case, why do we sit here waiting to be summoned by elves? There is much we could do right now and far better pursuits than sitting in wait as we are!"

"Aye indeed Gimli," Aragorn laughs deeply. "This is my stronghold, is it not? There is much we might do right now; the elven king and his troublesome son could well be left to family matters without our waiting here!"

But neither of us makes any move, and we both sit smiling at the merry fire before us. I feel the wine warm my cheeks and I feel every bone in my body sing in joy at the comfort I finally feel settling upon me. This is no hard forest clearing or open windy plain, it is neither wet nor cold. The dwarf in me rails against why we sit at wait but the years upon me cannot complain that we do.

"I am quite comfortable, though," Aragorn admits.

"Aye," I agree: "quite comfortable. If I remain here, that is the sole reason for it."

Aragorn grins, a boyish expression that melts the years and care from his face. There is a look upon him that speaks quite plainly of his reasons for waiting – his fear of the elven king not withstanding – and so I hide my own smile behind my beard, and I settle down.

~{O}~

When Legolas and Thranduil join us again there has been food provided, and Aragorn thinks nothing of gathering the platters to carry back through into the larger room. If Gondor's king is happy enough to ferry refreshments then I am happy to assist, and we take ourselves into the comfortable audience chambers in which we started this evening's discourse.

Legolas looks anxious and torn by some indecision, but his father seems just the same as he ever does. Thranduil is cool and collected and accepts the wine that Aragorn offers with a nod of thanks. Legolas helps himself to the fruit that my ranger friend and I have left uneaten, but he holds it in his hands and does not eat it, and eventually puts it back down again.

Legolas has been held in stone for too long. He is becoming driven to distraction and this council with his father has set him upon a knife's edge. His fingers twitch at his sides and he is thrumming with tension, and when I meet his gaze I nod my head toward the chair by my side. He sits just as he is instructed but does not seem happy in it, and although Thranduil watches with an inscrutable look, when he speaks it is to Aragorn.

"Estel, you have granted me the greatest hospitality this last week and I am grateful to you for it, but I would ask a further imposition. I wish to remain here a while longer: I would spend time with my son whilst I am able and before he returns to his wanderings. Who knows what condition he might return in when next I see him?"

Legolas' face sours but he holds his tongue, and I see Aragorn struggle for a moment. The emotions sitting plainly upon his face speak of much, and I know that he wishes to respond with all of the grace that a host should but instead he blurts out:

"But who guards the wood in your absence my king?"

It is graceless and clumsy, but Thranduil makes no sign that he thinks so.

"Lord Celeborn has visited the Greenwood," he speaks, his tone clipped and arch. "If he wants my southern reaches to become the northern parts of his own, then he is quite capable of looking after the whole. I left him in charge, although I admit I gave him little choice in the matter. Ionwë is there to ensure he does nothing too foolish."

Lord Celeborn to my understanding is Sindarin by blood, though by the tone of his voice it seems 'Sindar' and 'sensible' mean nothing the same to the woodland king. I had thought that Thranduil's prejudices extended only to the Noldorin elves but it seems not so. I wonder if there are any that escape the disdain of Thranduil, but then he looks upon his son and I see a softening of his face – so like the face I know far better – and he is changed. He takes a breath and finds a seat, and suddenly I find I am not uncomfortable in his company. He smiles, and it is as though he is unfamiliar with the feel of it upon his face.

"I have never known you to leave the Greenwood for any reason, my lord," Aragorn speaks gently.

"I have so rarely had reason, cause, or freedom to do so Estel." The elven king speaks softly and glances sidelong at the ranger beside me. "Since Oropher has been gone I have had little freedom to chase the pursuits that I would choose of my own will, but now we are at peace. It always felt as though there was so much time, but I fear much has been squandered and even more lost in darkness. I would enjoy what we have fought so hard for, even if for just a few years."

Aragorn is quiet for a moment, leaning forward with elbows at rest upon his knees. He looks ready to leap up and to flee, but then he always seems so.

"Perhaps then I might suggest a hunt?" he offers.

I look to Legolas who has managed to still himself for a heartbeat. I know that we both think the same; our own troubles began as nothing more than a hunt, but we cannot avoid hunting again for all of our lives. We were unlucky... so very, very unlucky. He makes a movement – there and then gone – and it could have been a shrug, but instead of speaking he looks to his father. There is something shared between them and it excludes all others.

"What guard did you bring?" he asks, and it sounds like a demand.

"Most I sent back to the wood, but Faelwen is still here and now of course there is you."

"That is hardly sufficient!" Legolas snorts in disdain.

"We are to hunt, not go into battle."

"Just as Gimli and I were going to hunt, and you have spent most of tonight berating me mostly sorely for it! You are my king, I would be anxious should you so much as take the air in the gardens with no more than a guard of two."

"Gimli and I will be there as well," Aragorn points out flatly: "and I will bring men of my own."

The look he is given by the elf is doubtful indeed, and I cannot decide whether I am annoyed that he thinks men and dwarves so helpless or whether I am amused by it. Even so, I can see a fight forming. Thranduil looks ready to voice his opinion on his son treating him as a witless invalid and Aragorn is ready to bite at being considered unable to protect his guests. Legolas is strung tightly enough by his confinement to argue the very colour of the sky, and so I speak.

"Never fear, laddie," I tell him airily. "I shall be there to protect you and your father both, for a dwarf is worth a hundred men and a thousand elves. Should you be gored by a boar or bitten by rabbits, you need not rely on Aragorn here to fend them off."

The elf narrows his eyes at me and very pointedly checks the level of my wine goblet.

"Is this thing settled, or are we to argue further? I am weary and may seek my rest – you can fill me in on matters in the morning."

"I am sure that whatever guard Estel deems appropriate will be quite sufficient," Thranduil tells us and there is an air of finality in his tone. "I am certain that he will consult with you on the matter Legolas, but master Gimli is right; you have been long on the road and you should rest. We need not rush matters; a few days here will be spent in good company before we leave for anyplace at all. Estel, Legolas… I might speak with our dwarven friend here for a short spell before he finds his bed, if it is well with him."

He looks to me, and how can I refuse?

It is not unexpected and so I remain seated as Aragorn and Legolas rise to take their leave. Our ranger friend grips my shoulder once in passing – a welcome and an offer of consolation in one – but the elf gives me nothing. He is stony faced as he leaves and offers me no look at all. I do not blame him for it – I know Legolas well enough to know that he does not enjoy being discussed even when he is present to hear what is said – but I am stung by the distance in him.

I cannot help but watch as he goes, waiting for some sign that my friend is himself. Do the shadows pull at him? Does he hear whispers even now? I do not know, I cannot tell. I have spent so long keeping such close watch over him that I feel a twinge of anxiety that he leaves without me knowing his mind. I huff to myself in frustration... I have become a nursemaid.

When he is gone the silence that remains rings in my ears like the aftermath of battle. I am alone with the woodland king, but I have been here before.

"I will take no letters from you my lord, no matter who penned them," I tell him.

I am unsure as to what response I expected from Thranduil, but it was certainly not sadness. He looks at his hands and I wonder what he sees – he is inscrutable as the stone and I still do not know him well enough to read him – but I can feel his unhappiness in the air itself. Thranduil is a heavy presence and he fills all of the spaces about him whether he means to or not. He is sad, and I am surprised to find that I wish nothing more than to lighten the weight that bows such shoulders.

"Are you well, Gimli?" he asks me simply, just as the silence becomes too heavy to bear. He looks at me and his gaze is for once open and gentle, easier to meet. I nod and when I speak I find my tone oddly gruff.

"I am well, my thanks. Although my knee troubles me on occasion it is nothing that will not improve with rest."

"And your heart… it will heal?"

"In time, aye. There is much darkness about me these days but it will lighten and it will heal. Dwarven hearts are much like those of men; things fade and become easier to bear with the years."

"I have heard so," Thranduil nods to himself. "I envy that at times. To walk all of our days beneath the sun with such memories as we have… it can be difficult at times. I am glad that you will be well; Ionwë speaks well of you… as much as Ionwë is able to speak well of any."

I try to imagine Lord Ionwë speaking well of any person at all and I find my imagination too limited. Ionwë is rough and cold and would possibly be forced to sail before giving praise to any creature alive. Thranduil is his friend though – perhaps the only one he has – and so perhaps he is better at ease and more able to speak of such things. I admit that I feel a curl of pride at being spoken well of by such a being as Lord Ionwë but I show none of it. Instead I ask:

"Legolas has spoken to you of his burden?"

"No," the inscrutable king shakes his head slowly. "But I do not need for him to tell me; it is as plain as the stars in the sky. I know my son, and there is much amiss in the elf I have seen before me tonight."

"I must watch him like a hawk," I confirm with a sigh.

"And much does he complain of it. I understand that my son can be difficult at times master Gimli," I snort but he ignores it: "it does my heart well to know that he has such a friend at his side."

I feel a moment of guilt. I feel again every annoyance, every flare of anger and hear again every harsh word I have spoken to him of late, but it falls away to nothing. These feelings… they are nothing. They are replaced by a remembrance – I feel again what I felt during a day and a night in the darkness, so far from the sky. I hear the lost voice of my friend, so broken and hurt and yet there; guiding me and carrying me to safety. Legolas is infuriating and I still cannot unravel the briar patch that is my heart, but he is the greatest friend I have ever known.

"I must watch him, but your son saved my life. He fought on past hurt I cannot even fathom, day beyond dawn beyond night, on and again… and for me. I cannot repay that sort of debt, never in all the years left to me. If I must watch him and distract him when distraction is needed then it is what I will do, and I will do so gladly."

I take a moment and glance at my own hands much as the king has done, and I see that they tremble. I grip them in the fabric of my trouser leg and breathe deep and slowly; there is the Song of Mahal – there is my lifeline. I cling to it, and I feel my heart settle and calm.

"I would strangle him in an instant at times, were I not so concerned by what might hunt me down should I do so," I admit quite freely. "But then the moment passes, and he is Legolas. We do not always choose our friends – indeed I would never have chosen an elf for anything at all had I the option – but my path has led me to your son, and I am a better person for knowing him."

Thranduil smiles at me and it is a real smile that I see. It is warm and for a moment I know the king of Mirkwood; I know the Thranduil that Legolas and Ionwë know, I know the elf that became king of the wood. I see Legolas clear in the softening of his eyes, the gentle curl of his mouth… but there is nothing of the youthful forest spirit before me – Thranduil is old beyond his years.

"He says much the same of you," he tells me.

~{O}~

I speak longer with Thranduil than perhaps either of us had expected. He asks me questions about his son – questions I have never been asked before and have to think on before I reply. Does Legolas speak with the trees more since our battle with the Shadow, or less? Of what does he sing? When he travels, is it by horseback or on foot? Questions that tell me how little I know of my friend, for they seem so obvious once asked that I wonder why I had not noticed before. I take my cues not from his dalliance with trees nor do I gauge his mood by how he chooses to travel that day, but if I were to think on it I cannot speak of what it is that tells me when he is well and when he is not. I simply know it.

Thranduil has not walked our road though and cannot go by this sense of _knowing_ as I am able, but instead he knows these habits as though they are ingrained within his very fabric. If Thranduil can tell what sort of mood his son is in by what he eats for lunch then I am both impressed and doubly assured that elves are the strangest of folk.

He questions me a while on my own wellbeing which I mumble and blush my way through, and then he changes the conversation to ask of my father, although I can see the strain it puts upon him to remain polite. I appreciate his effort, even though his glassy eyes and rigid jaw speak much of the falseness of his words, and we are both glad when I answer briefly and do not prolong the conversation.

When we are done it is obvious that we are both fairly relieved to be through with this audience, but I understand Thranduil better these days. He does not trust, he is well set in his ways and his heart is a thorny and well-guarded thing but he loves his son deeply, and I know that he makes time for me because of that. If I am any friend at all, I must at least attempt the same.

I am led back through the rabbit warren of this stronghold by the same youthful guard that brought us here. I follow him in silence for a time but I cannot help myself; I am too caught up in thoughts to stop my own attempt at distraction. I speak quite forthrightly that I believe him far too young to be so employed, and it is only because I am staring at the back of his tousled and mussed head that I see him nod. He is tall and rangy with very clear, pale eyes and I see that perhaps he is not as young as I believed him to be, but I am too tired for it to matter at all.

He smiles, but it is self-reproachful and he does not look at me. The pace he sets is swift and I must concentrate on our journey.

"Many believe so," he tells me. "But with respect my lord, I have earned my place here and I have reason enough for wanting to protect my king."

I might ask him more, for my curiosity is piqued, but I should have asked him earlier – we have already arrived at our destination. He pauses before we enter and looks as though he may say something else to me, but after a moment he thinks better of it and wishes me a good night. I am too weary and too full of thoughts of the bed awaiting me to push what he may wish to say so I let him go, and it is with gratitude that I find myself finally alone.

My first impressions of the room I have been given is that there is an odd smell to the air – herbal and old, like a healer's rooms but only faintly so. It is a large room, certainly, but I spend no time at all in exploring. I find that my limbs are leaden, my eyes drooping and by the moody light of the fire in the hearth I change into the soft bed clothes set aside for me.

I realise that Legolas and I have chambers that adjoin one another and for that I am grateful. I can hear that my friend is not alone; he speaks with someone, and I pause for only a heartbeat before I recognise the gentle tones of Gondor's queen. Arwen, he is with Arwen. I have no wish to intrude upon their reunion and neither do I wish any further company this night, and so I pull the door closed. Once I am abed it is perhaps only moments before I am drawn deeply into my dreams.

I fall into nightmares at a point in the night: dark things of fear and blood and confinement. I hear a fair voice, I feel a cool hand upon my brow and I know that Legolas does not sleep. His presence carries me into better dreams... he is there, I know comfort in it, and it is enough.

~{O}~

I sleep late – later than I have in years. The sun is well risen by the time I untangle myself from slumber and I cannot find it in me to care that I have slept away most of the morning. I lie in a deep and soft bed and I think of nothing at all for a time, and it feels good to me to do so. I take the time to look about the room and I see that I was not mistaken last night; it is large indeed but there is neither clutter nor emptiness in this space. Pale wintery light falls across scrubbed flagstone and it is narrow and long, with plain stone walls and a high hearth. Large chairs bracket the fireplace with a table between and a large rug to soften the chill of the stone beneath bare feet. There is a small amount of old wooden furniture that has seen much of use but also much care, and a trunk at the foot of this expansive bed holds my belongings.

I remember my dreams, and I try to banish them.

At the far end of my room is the door that separates me from Legolas and I stare at it for a while, wondering whether he is there behind it. A voice startles me out of my reverie though and this blissful time of thoughtless silence is gone.

"I thought you might sleep the day away," is the reprimand, and I sigh.

Legolas has sat so still before the brightness of my window ledge that I had not even seen him, and now that I am wakened he shuts his book with the snap of a wrist and turns to face me. He is dressed finely in a tunic of his usual silvery greens and I know that he finds it unpleasant to be dressed so out of his Mirkwood green and brown. With Aragorn he might have argued and got his own way, but with his father here he will be expected to dress as a prince. I find that something in me smirks in satisfaction to know that he will spend the days that follow quite uncomfortable, but then I realise he is staring at me intently. He looks to see whether I carry anything of my nightmares from last night, and so I banish them thoroughly and rake my mind together until I am quite myself again.

"Is there any part of you that understands privacy?" I ask him with annoyance, and he is up and to his feet lightly as though I have said nothing at all.

"Come!" he urges insistently. "I have waited all the morning through for you to awaken, come and see what room I sleep in. Arwen has chosen it, it is a marvel! Do not be difficult, I have seen you in your bedclothes before. Up, Gimli, up!"

I cannot help it. He is much his old self today and I am so swept up in his enthusiasm that I cannot find myself annoyed. I am up and to my feet, dragging my hand across face and beard to remove the last dregs of sleep, and I follow him through the wooden door into his chamber. He is quite right… it is a wonder, and the queen has chosen quite perfectly for the elf.

Legolas yammers on constantly as I explore and tells me that both of these rooms were once the workshop of the old herb master, before new quarters were constructed closer to the healing rooms. It explains the dusty smell of herbs about the place for certain. We are on the outer face of Mindolluin and there are broad windows spanning most of this room; smaller than mine but it is made up for by the garden. A garden, within a mountain!

Legolas' small quarters open by large double doors onto a glass encased balcony. It is long and wide and inside grow plants of every hue, shape and colour that I could ever imagine. This balcony opens again to a small terrace, wide open to the world outside and so Legolas may sleep quite contentedly within the stone and still be outside, still be amongst the growing things. Arwen must have spent a great deal of time in here, planting and sowing to make this garden bloom. I can feel the touch of the elves here, I know the feel of it… these plants are blessed.

I walk through Legolas' glass garden and am surrounded by warmth and life all about me; things bloom and breathe and whisper. Tall ferns and draping moss, reaching brittle grass and soft fleshy leaves bearing heavily scented flowers enclose me, and I am not in a mountain. I am not in a fortress city or closer to the clouds than the soil. I walk with Yavannah whilst the song of Mahal beats at me with every thrum of my heart. It is quite a thing to experience, and I stop still beside the gentle nodding heads of pale lilac flowers, set shivering by the breeze from balcony doors open to the chill.

Legolas stands there, framed by golden sunlight with a look of pure delight upon his face and I cannot help but return it.

"Although I am not sure that plants are quite worth being ousted from my bed, I am happy that it pleases you my friend," I tell him honestly. "Trust the elves to make even a mountain bloom."

He carries on quite happily, pleased by my response, and tells me of the plants that grow here although I am clearly not listening to him. They are young, he says, but some are awake and their voices murmur and hum on the edge of his mind. I wonder if they banish the other things that linger there but I will not think so… not on such a pleasant morning with such unpleasant ones behind us. I walk from his room to the garden, through again to the balcony open to the air. This is far narrower but it runs the span of the two rooms together, and I look down but only for a moment.

It is far, far down.

Beneath us I can see the stable yard but the men look as ants and I am not meant for heights quite as lofty as this. I shift back and am unsurprised to see that Legolas has perched himself quite happily upon the edge, watching me as though I have said or done something odd. His sudden silence after such a spirited – if one sided – discourse is abrupt and unsettling, but I know him well enough to wait and he speaks again in his own time.

"You are quiet this morning," he tells me, and I cannot help but laugh.

"And you are quite the opposite!" I speak. "I have had barely a chance to make a sound and I am not long from my sleep. A chance, Legolas… grant me a chance to get my feet beneath me!"

"What did my father wish to speak of last night?"

"What do you imagine your father wished to speak of?"

He is silent at that, and I sober for a moment.

"He is worried for you, and before you argue it Legolas you cannot ask a father not to worry for his son."

"He seems tired," Legolas tells me softly. His eyes are fixed upon the sky where a distant line of birds undulate and drift upon an endless sky of brittle blue. They practise for their flight to warmer lands and there are countless numbers of them, dancing and weaving and distracting eyes far more prone to distraction than mine. Legolas sits and watches them with an unblinking focus that tells me he sees them not at all.

"He seemed so to me, too," I admit. "But perhaps his journey here was fortunate indeed. He came seeking a son and found his own distraction as well. The House of Oropher comes to Minas Tirith for much the same reason it seems, and well have you found your goal. With any luck this hunting trip will be less dangerous than the last."

"It cannot be more so," Legolas snorts, but then he looks askance at me and there is a smile about him. "You are right though Gimli; it has been long since my king spent any time being simply Thranduil whilst I am so keen to be nothing but Legolas. I forget sometimes of the weight he carries… these weeks will be fine weeks indeed."

I nod in agreement although I shiver now; it is certainly a lofty and chill place for such a conversation, and me in my bedclothes! I smile though and Legolas grins at me.

~{O}~

I spend a leisurely time washing and dressing and it feels quite fine to be so clean and scrubbed and in fresh clothes again. By the time I am done my stomach is complaining loudly to me, and so Legolas and I leave to seek our morning meal without guide or chaperone.

My friend has an almost unerring sense of direction and leads me through the maze of corridors without a single misplaced step, but he is miserable in these tunnels of stone and his legs are far longer than mine. I am forced to near enough jog at his side to keep pace, and even if his frightening and stony face did not dissuade me so thoroughly from conversation I have no breath for it in any case.

I am ready to grab at him to force a slowing of this sprint through Minas Tirith when I am rescued by a familiar face. Faelwen finds us, and if I am pleased it is not just because we must stop or else seem rude – I like Faelwen quite well despite that she is an elf. When she spies us her face splits into a grin and Legolas' sternness vanishes in an instant as the two embrace roughly.

Faelwen is fair, with quick grey eyes and tightly bound dark hair revealing the clean lines of her neck and face. Despite her surroundings she is clad still in her warrior garb, and there is a sense of readiness about her; the same watchfulness that my own elf carries about him at all times. She is no quaking maiden or dreamy Noldor, she is Legolas' second in command and a _laegrim_ archer of considerable skill. For this I like her all the better, and my approval is cemented when she draws back from her embrace with her prince only to punch him quite solidly in the arm. Her broad smile switches to a peeved scowl.

"So you live, I see," she remarks tartly. "I had heard it but I came to see for myself. Where have you been all of the morning?"

"Gimli is lazy," is the reply, and I find myself sighing… the elves are at play and as ever I must be dragged into it as well. Legolas thinks nothing of the fact that he has just been greeted by his friend and subordinate with physical assault.

"I would require less sleep had I been allowed to my bed at a more reasonable hour," I tell him, and fold my arms about my chest. "To Legolas I give no apology, but I am sorry if I kept you waiting Faelwen."

The fond smile I am given has me blushing, but Legolas merely snorts until she turns the same smile to him.

"It is good to see you both whole again. I feared for you when you slipped away from us… not merely for the condition you were in at the time, but because the king was most displeased."

"My king has expressed his feelings quite thoroughly," Legolas tells her flatly. "He has promised to take up the conversation again today, and every day that we are together until he decides I have understood him. Apparently I have spent too long away from the company of elves and it has made me mentally feeble in some way."

I had been yawning and now I am choking, but Faelwen breezes past the insult to me without the bat of an eyelid. She tells me:

"I would have thought that you might have abandoned this troublesome thing for safer and more agreeable company by now. I am glad that you have not for my own sake, but for yours I might suggest broadening your social circles."

"Alas Faelwen, someone must keep by his side to ensure his safety. I have yet to meet another foolhardy enough for the task."

"Continue amongst yourselves," Legolas instructs us airily with a wave of his hand, walking on without us. "Find me when you are done with your game, I'll not stand here and be insulted in a cave."

Faelwen laughs again and it is a fine sound, and we both catch up until all three of us fall into pace with one another. I listen as Legolas asks after his friends and we are told that Almárean was up and about when Faelwen left with Thranduil to come here, although she admits it could well have been simply to escape Idhren's nagging. I am glad to hear the news… more glad than I thought I might be. I have found myself inexplicably bound to these creatures and I like Almárean, just as I like Idhren and Faelwen. I may tolerate Legolas but his friends are fine creatures and I care for their wellness. Almárean heals slowly, but he heals. Almárean is strong.

We find the kitchens quickly – we have missed breakfast – but I am unhappy to find that we do not stop. Faelwen and Legolas have only to show themselves in the vast and hot chaos of Aragorn's kitchens and suddenly there is a veritable army of serving staff all with the sole purpose of giving us food, but the bustle is a bid for us to be swiftly gone. The kitchens of Lasgalen are a meeting place for warriors; it is a home from home, a sanctuary. This place is movement and noise and heat, and we are not wanted here.

A dour, round woman with hair plastered to her forehead and flour up to her forearms takes in Legolas' lean and thin frame, scowls and tuts at him as though he has starved himself only to irk her. Within moments our arms are laden with bread, fruits, meats and cheeses and we are ejected again before I am even sure what has occurred. Legolas takes this entirely in stride and starts our march again, back through the winding corridors with barely a break in his conversation.

When we come to a stop we are outside, and I wish I had known that we might be eating outdoors for I would have brought a cloak with me. I should have known, the fault is perhaps my own. Legolas has been trapped in stone for too long and when the sun hits his face and the wind catches his hair I see his shoulders lift and his chest rise deeply to take in the air. His face lightens into the palest shadow of a smile and he leads us to a shaded courtyard, away from the wind and the traffic of people that always seem to be rushing about this place.

There are two stone benches facing one another, a wall closing us from the weather and a scrubby rose bush planted amongst something else that is unidentifiable in its winter nudity. Faelwen and I take a bench each and Legolas sprawls upon the floor, his legs stretched out before him. He looks more relaxed in this moment than he has for any since coming here, and I feel a tug of guilt for insisting upon this visit. It is brief and easily banished, but it is there.

I set myself upon the food, and after a while has passed and Legolas has not done the same I shove food toward him with my foot and scowl at him until he knows my meaning. His sigh is barely there but I see it in any case. He begins to eat but there is no enjoyment in it for him – I wonder if he will ever get his appetite back. He has become too thin, his face is all planes and hollows – more so now than it was before – and it gives him a hungry and wild look.

"Your father says we are to hunt," Faelwen speaks around a mouth of bread. She leans back upon her seat and the weak sun catches her hair in a riot of rich chestnut. It is tied back and yet still manages to be wind tangled and mussed.

"How did my father persuade his guard to leave?" my friend asks, countering a question with a question. I can see that he is still not happy about this hunt and I cannot say that I blame him for it. "I am surprised that you allowed it, almost as surprised as I am that he chose you to remain. He has never chosen Silvan over Sindar for anything, not even once."

"He is the king, Legolas," she replies without any tone at all, "and he is your father. I have never persuaded you to do anything in your life, and the Greenleaf falls not far from the tree in this instance. I had no choice, he simply informed me that we were remaining and the others were not, and you know how he is. I would sooner persuade the trees to leave. Besides, Ionwë told me that I was to remain at your father's side until you reappeared. I have a message for you from him, although I am sure you can imagine it without me telling you. He was shouting through it all."

"Ionwë is angered with me then," Legolas sighs mournfully.

"Oh yes," is the certain reply. He returns to pick mournfully at his food and Faelwen turns to me, ignoring his misery entirely. "Gimli," she enthuses and leans forward to touch my arm across the expanse between us. "I would spend time with you whilst we are here together. I wish you to show me the axe, if you would indulge me. We spend little time learning it in our youth and no time at all when we are adults – I have seen the way you wield it, and I would learn from one so skilled. Would you agree to it?"

Her voice is keen and animated but I glance to Legolas for a second before I respond. Here is where I expect his ridicule – it is as natural as the seasons – but he has fallen into thought and is far away. Faelwen has also looked to her prince and there is a pinch of concern that he is gone from our company in mind if not in body, but we continue as though nothing has occurred.

"I would be glad to teach you what I can, although I admit I am no teacher and you may learn little from me."

"If you take my prince as proof of your failings you will never teach him a thing, it is a wonder he is able to dress of a morning. I am sure you will do admirably Gimli, my thanks indeed."

She is beaming and I feel myself flush, and so I lean back to extricate her hand from my arm but not so quickly as to seem rude. I mumble something – I am unsure as to what – and she laughs at my embarrassment but it is not unkind. She is a delight, she truly is. Her demeanour changes and she glances to her prince, but I do not understand what I see. For a moment I see a hundred emotions that flit across her face, but she settles at last on annoyance.

"You are to be on the archery fields just past midday," she informs him. I do not entirely understand her annoyance, but the tone of her voice certainly grabs the elf's attention from wherever it has strayed.

"For whatever reason?" he asks with a hint of umbrage, his attention grabbed and a hint of a frown about his brow. I can imagine why – when you are as skilled at bow as Legolas is, one is not summoned to the practise fields. Faelwen shrugs and flits a hand as though it is nothing.

"I may have overheard some young men bragging of their skill, and they may have heard you were here. They may have been a little overconfident, and I may have placed a wager. It is nothing at all."

I would laugh but I cannot bring myself to break their conversation. What passes across Legolas' face right now is too fast to follow but nothing of it is pleasant. He seems to struggle for words and Faelwen takes his silence for another opportunity to speak. When she does it is with another mouthful of food, and she uses the cheese in her hand to punctuate her words.

"You owe me for the weeks I spent with Ionwë after you slithered into the trees, and I would not be so unseemly as to wager for money. It is barely an hours' work for you and I will be a week free of stable duties."

"You could beat any man at bow with your back to the target, why drag me into this?"

"Because I am not the fearsome warrior prince of the wood," she gives him a sly smile. "I not the leader of Mirkwood's fabled wild archers, Thranduil's Golden Arrow or the – "

"That is enough!" he cuts her off quickly. "I will do it… enough, Faelwen. I do not know for a moment why I miss you when you are gone; I dislike you immensely when you are here."

Legolas continues his complaints to himself but when he looks up to the sky again his eyes are clearer, although no less aggrieved. Faelwen looks triumphant, and when we catch each other's glance it is with complete understanding. I am not the only one that seeks to distract the elf in whatever way I am able – it seems I have an ally in this. I can breathe all the easier knowing it, my shoulders feel all the lighter and I nod my thanks to her – barely a movement at all – but she does not respond. She has been looking after her prince a lot longer than I have, and my relief turns into the palest curl of shame although I do not completely understand it.

I am given no chance to think on it though for we have a visitor, and I am confused all over again.

Gondor's queen finds us, but I see Legolas' face before I see her and I do not understand the coldness that flits across his features before they are schooled into a blank mask. I look up and I am taken by the sight of Arwen, and although it is not the first time I have seen her by any measure I am astounded once again by her beauty. The tales of her fairness are true, each and all of them.

She wears blue, but it is a simple dress and not grand as one would expect of a queen. Her beauty is not in baubles or trinkets, neither is it the fall of dark hair that falls girlishly past to her waist. It is not the blue of her eyes or the paleness of her skin, but it is all of these things together. It is her stillness, her grace. When Arwen looks upon a person it is with her full regard, and when she listens it is as though you are the only person in the world at that moment. She stands before us and smiles, and although it is a small and faint thing there is true pleasure in it. There is the faintest crinkling about her eyes, the softest touch about her mouth and I want nothing more than to make her smile for all of her days.

Faelwen finds herself long before I do – she is not one to be caught up in the beauty of elven queens – and as she stands so too do I find my feet. We are up, but are instantly waved back down again with a smile each of our very own. Legolas does not rise until after we are sat. It is not a lack of respect, but just as he does not bow to Aragorn he does not bow to his queen. He has known them both for too long, and I do not think for a moment that he even thinks on what might be considered a grievous lack of manners. Arwen thinks nothing on it, but neither does she seek to join us. Something has happened between them and I see it as I sit back down. Legolas is annoyed, Arwen is unsure of herself and there is a great distance between the two of them right now.

"Legolas," she greets warmly. "I am sorry to interrupt. My lord is caught up in affairs and I seek company, I would take in the air before the day is much further lost to us."

The rebuttal is a shock to us all.

"Alas, I am needed on the archery fields and then I must meet with my father, but I am sure Gimli would keep you company should you require it."

I am astounded. Faelwen has only just managed to keep her tongue and there is the faintest touch of hurt upon the elven queen's brow, but Legolas looks only to me for a moment. I am outraged at having my company handed out, and so rudely at that, but my tongue is stilled by his look. He begs me to abide by this and promises that he will explain things to me but not right now, and not in such company. I give him the faintest nod, but I make quite sure he realises by the look he is given that I expect a good reason for such terrible rudeness.

Arwen sighs – it is barely a breath but I hear it – though she inclines her head in any case. This is not what she came here seeking, not at all, but if she refuses my company now it will turn an already graceless exchange into something worse. This is awkward to the point of embarrassment. Whatever has come between these two it is enough to lose Arwen her grace, and Legolas his bravery. Whatever the cause of this I will not allow my day to be ruined, and so I stand with a harrumph and offer out my arm.

"Fear not, my lady," I smile up at her, for who would not smile at one so lovely? "If this elfling would rather play at bow than spend an afternoon in your company then it is his loss and my considerable gain. Let us take the air, and you can tell me more of this wonderful place if you can find a good word to spare for it. Pardon me for saying it, but it is wasted upon elves!"

Arwen regains herself at my false bluster just as I knew she would, laughs lightly and takes my arm. Any hurt or confusion that I may have seen in her is swept away and hidden in a moment, and she gives me a look of gratitude – there and then gone – that tells me she knows exactly what I do. I turn for a second before we are gone from sight and I see Faelwen and Legolas in extremely heated discussion indeed. I wonder what on Arda we have just been put in the middle of.

~{O}~

Once we are far enough away and there is no likelihood of Legolas seeing, Arwen finally lets her disappointment show in a true sigh and a glance to the heavens. There is annoyance there as well, and whether intentional or not I am glad that she feels comfortable enough in my company to let herself slip in this way. I do not know this queen, but I am beginning to know elves.

"Can I assume that all is not well, my queen?" I ask her carefully. She looks down at me again – who knows what she sees – and she smiles once more, but this time it is an odd thing; there is self-recrimination and frustration there.

I cast my mind back, I try to imagine anything that might have Legolas angry enough to cast his childhood friend away like this. The elf is many things but he is capable of hiding annoyance when he wishes to. But this is not annoyance, this is more than that. I picture the look he gave Arwen, I picture it and I try to decipher it – if anything I might say that Legolas has been hurt, but then what could injure him into anger this way?

I look at Arwen again and she shakes her head, but it is not in denial. I recognise the emotion well, although I do not imagine that I look so fair with it sat upon my own face. We are not all so favoured by bloodlines.

Galadriel's granddaughter, _ai_… I see it in a moment!

Arwen favours her father in her colouring, but she is the granddaughter of Galadriel and there is only one thing that I can think of that would have Legolas acting this way. To be this cold toward any he has known and loved as family for so long? It is the anger at one friend allowing the hurt of another.

"You knew?" I accuse, and withdraw my hand from her arm. This time she does not sigh, this time there is annoyance that reminds me so very clearly of Lord Elrond but I do not falter beneath it. I have spent a long time being so looked at by elves, and so I brazen it out with a stare of my own and she moves away. We are upon a terrace that might be beautiful in summer, but now the grass is flat and sickly with the cold. The bushes are cut back and bare, the borders empty of any flowers but there is still beauty here. Statuary that might be hidden in the full growth of summer now stands at guard: blank and cold faces stare their challenges at those who pass here and I feel watched. Arwen's stillness and grace fits well, but a bustling and loud dwarf does not.

"Not enough to have done a thing to have helped," she speaks but she does not meet my eyes. Her back is still to me. "Galadriel and my _adar_… they have the sight but I never had what they have. I knew small parts of what was to happen, it would not have helped."

"And so you did not try."

I try to keep my tone respectful, I try to keep my words neutral but by Eru it is not me! I will not shout for the respect I feel for her father and husband, but I do not know Arwen. I feel my chest restrict and the air choke within me; it is not anger, but I do not know what this emotion is. She _knew!_

"Gimli please," she turns to me. "I know you cannot understand this, but not all that is seen can be changed. What happened to you and Legolas would have happened no matter how many letters were sent to you."

"You knew this for certain, then? Beyond shadow of doubt, you knew that nothing of what we have seen and done this summer could have been lessened with greater warning? Everything I have been through, everything that the elf has suffered… "

"I knew only images, feelings… nothing that would have made sense. I kept them even from Aragorn, but of course I see Legolas and he reads it in me within a moment. Not a thing you say to me will be anything more than a drop in the ocean of guilt I feel right now. I see what has been done to him: I am near him and I feel the wound to his fëa as if it is my own that has been corrupted. I think 'perhaps I might have changed their path' and it matters not at all. The path ahead cannot be changed any more than the path already walked, I swear it to you."

I am silent for a moment. I look for strength up to where the birds still bank and eddy in the skies – it is another habit I have picked up – and although I cannot tame my thoughts I give Arwen a chance to regain her composure just as I claw myself together. Gimli of old might have been shouting down the heavens by now, but this Gimli is far more used to holding himself silent.

"I think perhaps the choice was ours to make," I tell her gently, and she deflates. Askance I look at her and I see the words she does not speak: they are written upon her face as plainly as though she had voiced them.

'_By Elbereth, I know that,'_ she says, but perhaps it is pride that stills her tongue. I begin to understand the difference in Noldor from Sindar and Silvan, and I realise I have spent far too long with elves.

I do not know what it is that she expected of me today… I do not know that she expected to have this conversation at all, and so she is raw and her heart is open to me. I do not think she imagined that a dwarf – the friend of her friend – might draw this out of her so easily, and so the Arwen before me is the true Arwen. There are no masks between us; no fancy word games such as the elves I have met before like to play. I am angered with her, I truly am, but I am glad that she is this way. I understand this, and I do not think I would have understood a different Arwen.

I go to her and stand at her side, and together we look out at the world rolling out before us so endlessly. The wind whistles and streams past my ears; we are on the side of the city and we look out westward, the sun already falling. I see clouds upon the horizon and I see her nose flare at the scent of the weather turning, but she is frozen; she is a statue herself, endless and flawless as the marble. But perhaps she is not so flawless.

"Do you think me cruel, Gimli?" she asks me. She does not seek absolution or redemption from me, she is too old to seek such things, but I hear sadness in her voice. The Shadow has caused more than enough sadness, and more than enough tension between friends. It must be ended before the creature can truly be said to be defeated.

"I do not know you well, my queen, but I do not believe you cruel."

"Then perhaps I thought myself far wiser than I am."

"I think decisions on what should or should not be known might be better left to your father," I agree, and it is the best that I can do. She turns to me and smiles, but this time it is honest and the sadness is replaced with wistfulness. She looks at me and I feel everything stripped away right to my soul, but I do not fold. I look out to the city far beneath me and the land rolling far into the distance, and I feel her eyes upon me for a long while until she is satisfied.

"Legolas is fortunate," she tells me, finally looking away.

"You would do me a great service in telling him so."

"If he is to speak to me ever again then I shall," she sighs again in frustration. _"Sindar!"_ she hisses in annoyance, and I cannot help myself. I laugh: a great bark of a laugh that echoes sharply against stone and then rolls freely out into vast expanse of blue before me. Arwen looks at me again but this time it is with surprise and then with fondness, but our next silence is broken all too quickly.

There is a commotion and we are both roused. There is shouting, and the voices carry to us although we cannot hear what is being said. The sound of it echoes and distorts in stone. I hear panic in those voices, and I hear a clamouring elsewhere as an alarm is raised. I hear men running, shouting… calling out to one another in the controlled chaos of well trained soldiers.

I push from the balcony and move forward. I am unsure as to what happens but unable to stop the stirring in my blood at the sound of voices raised in such turmoil. When I hear their words clearly I wish that I had not. My blood and my limbs freeze, but I cannot drown out the words now that they are heard:

"_Assassination!"_ I hear.

"_Assassination in the House of Oropher!"_

_TBC_

* * *

__**So, some of you _may_ recall the fondness I have for cliffhanger endings. I'm very sorry.**

**A great big thanks to everyone who reviewed - especially those with guest accounts that I cannot reply to personally. It was great to see you guys again and great to see a few new faces. Welcome!**

**Just one teensy little thing I wanted to clarify in case anyone picks me up on it. Arwen's frustrations at young Master Thranduilion and her exasperated sigh of 'Sindar'. Yes, my Legolas does identify FAR more with his Silvan side - almost to the point where it's easy to forget that he's half Sindarin - but I would imagine the Sindar/Noldor argument would have been far more prominent between the households when Legolas was growing up. It just felt more *correct* when I wrote it, and eventually I had to stop deleting and re-writing that bit and commit!**

**Thanks for reading, please review (since I've just given you such a massive chapter) and I really hope you've enjoyed this. Have a wonderful day :)**

**MyselfOnly**


	3. Chapter 3

The guards that we have waylaid know nothing. I spend some of the most terrible moments of my life trying to get information from them, but they know only the call to arms and not what has happened. They are anxious and apologetic to their queen but this does not stop the curl of frustration and violence that I feel stretch and awaken within me. The feeling is sudden and surprising but I have no mind to spare it, I know only that right now I am both prepared and willing to beat the information out of them if I must. Whilst a part of me is alarmed by this sudden rage – so unlike my usual self – the rest of me does not care.

I know nothing of what has happened. Assassination? Who has it been? The elfling or his father, they do not know, and I am ready to break down the very walls of Minas Tirith before a familiar face appears before me and bids that I follow. It is the guard, the young one, who has been a ghost about the place the whole time I have been here. He is pale and serious and grabs at me to go – Arwen says that she will catch up, and so I go.

I feel better to be moving, but although I call out to the lad he replies only that he has been sent to fetch me, and that is all. He is quick and nimble and navigates the tight corners and steep staircases of this labyrinth with ease, but I am used to following one far more nimble and so I make easy work of it in my fear. And fear it is indeed. It is gut wrenching, heart stuttering fear. Never shall I leave the elf alone again, never! If he is well, I shall murder him for this.

_Be well, Legolas. You cannot be anything but well._

A part of me has been ready for it, but even so I am surprised by the room I have come to, for it is my own. We fight through a crowd of guards who try only for a moment to stop us, and whether it is the wrath upon my face or the inexplicable respect that the soldiers seem to have for this lad they move aside when they see us. I burst in through the door into Legolas' room and all is chaos within.

It is a small room, I noted this before, but with so many here and all in movement it is difficult for a moment to find my bearings. I stop, I struggle to find my breath again and when my eye falls upon blood on the scrubbed stone floor I find it impossible to wrest my eye from it again. I cannot look up. Whose blood? I know whose it is of course, for whose room am I in? Thranduil would not have come here, certainly... I cannot look up.

My arm is taken in a firm grip and my attention is torn, I look up to see familiar eyes – so familiar. They are dark and deep and speak of so many things. Aragorn is a mountain of calm even in this tumult of raised voices but I see blood upon his hands too, just as it is on the floor, just as it is on his clothes. I feel my lips part to speak, but the words die in my throat. I ask him without words:

_Tell me. Good or ill… tell me._

But before he has a chance to say a word there is a voice raised in anger for the room to be cleared. It is Thranduil. The blood is not his.

"Gimli, no… it is well. Come!" Aragorn speaks quickly as he sees realisation form in my look. I am dragged forth just as the room is emptied forcibly by Faelwen, who in her state of shock has slipped into her own tongue but there is no question as to what she says. Her words are harsh and commanding and none question her for even a moment, and so we are left: just she, myself and Aragorn. Upon the bed sits Thranduil, and propped against him is Legolas held tight in his arms.

The elf is unhappy to be held so; it is plain in the vicious _laegrim_ cursing and the struggles that he puts up against the restraint. He struggles only to be released for what else can my elf do, hurt and held down and trapped within stone? I know Legolas, I know him well enough to know that he would claw his fingers to the bone right now to be hidden in deep places of green, wrapped in his Song and far from here. There is an arrow, deeply buried beneath his collar bone. It is a quarrel from a crossbow; stout and short and wide... not a mortal wound for an elf, but I cannot imagine how much it must pain him.

"Estel be quick about it," Thranduil snaps us both to attention. "It is like holding a warg!"

"Legolas!" I snap. Thranduil's voice has brought me to myself and the fear drops from me as though I have been plunged into a winter stream, replaced by a very clear anger. It has been perhaps fifteen minutes since I heard the cry; fifteen minutes since I was upon a lofty terrace with a queen, but it has been an age of fright and now it is gone. I see him alive and fighting to be free, and I am angry.

"Legolas _still yourself!"_

The elf hears my voice and his head snaps toward me. I see unfocussed eyes clouded with the need to flee, to run, to escape. I see them seek me out, focus upon me and then become clear. I am pinned beneath a look so wild and raw it is like gazing into the eyes of a cornered wolf, but I do not falter. This is how he should look – this is the Legolas that I know far better.

He stills, almost to a statue and as I approach I see the very moment in which he finds himself. There is a wall behind which my friend hides: from his pain, from his doubt and weakness. It is a wall built over ages and it serves him very well. It is there again now.

"What happened?" I demand as Aragorn takes this opportunity to approach the elf. Legolas snarls at him silently as he nears but the ranger merely hisses him into silence and carries on unimpressed by it. The wound is exposed, I avert my eyes.

"My idiot son threw himself in the path of a crossbow quarrel," Thranduil answers me. He is angry as well, and I see more of the king in this moment than I have in any of our conversations before. His anger is in odd contrast to his actions. Aragorn palpates the wound, Legolas stiffens and Thranduil rests a hand gently upon his son's brow for a moment. He is no longer needed to hold the elf, but he remains where he is. "I am waiting for Estel to stop him from bleeding to death, and when he is done I shall throttle him."

"It was aimed at your heart, my king." Legolas bites out. "And you are quite welcome."

Aragorn has concluded his assessments and has gone to the fire to fetch water already boiling. There is a scored and old work bench beside it, and upon it are already herbs and bowls set to one side. I do not think a moment on how strange it is that the king of Gondor is playing healer – I cannot imagine that he would trust any other with the wellbeing of the elfling.

Aragorn looks to any who would see him as though he is certain and calm, as though he knows exactly what he is about and is touched by none of what he does. I know him far better, and I see the slight tremor in his stained hands. I see the furious set to his jaw, the coldness in his eyes. This has been done to his friend within the walls of his city. I am not sure that I wish to see the Aragorn that will emerge as soon as the elf is patched and sleeping.

He has set Faelwen to work and she seems comfortable with mortar and pestle. She is quite adept at what she does, and her nimble hands fly surely and certainly over the oddments and things set before her. Aragorn has a blade in the hearth, he washes his hands in a bowl whilst the _elleth_ warrior brings a steaming cup to her captain. It smells abominably and Legolas looks ready to bat it aside, but she fixes him with a look that could stop the very clouds in the sky.

I recall many months ago in the spring of this year a wounded elf with broken hands, snapping and hissing and snarling like this for weeks in his confinement. He is a very poor patient, and it wears extremely thin very quickly. She blows aside a stray strand of hair that has come loose and glowers at him.

"I will pin you down and force it down your throat," she tells him lowly, her tone quite frightening. He believes her and drinks the brew, but his glare says he knows exactly what she does. I know the herb she uses, and she has used far too much.

It is quick. Indeed I have only time to scrub my hands uselessly against my trouser leg once, Aragorn has only just finished washing his hands and Faelwen has moved to the side of her king in time for Legolas to slacken and silence. He does not sleep yet – he fights it just as he fights everything – but neither is he entirely with us, and as Thranduil slides out from beneath the suddenly pliant body Faelwen helps him to move the elfling expertly and quickly. They prop him up in his bed so that Aragorn may begin his work, and Faelwen steps forward just as Thranduil takes a suddenly unsure step back.

A hot knife is withdrawn from the fire, the elf watches with faraway eyes and the king of the woodland elves sees the blood of his son upon his robes. He blanches.

Aragorn pauses and looks to both me and the king. A crossbow quarrel will not come out easily, I read the words in his eyes as clearly as though he had spoken them. He must cut it free, and he will do this far more freely without us watching his every move.

Thranduil reads the situation just as clearly as I do, and he pauses for a moment to ghost a hand across his son's brow once again and then he is leaving. He pulls off his blood marked robes, depositing them with a lack of care that I imagine quite out of character until he is left in just a pair of plain breeches and a white under shirt. We both move as one to the door leading to Legolas' garden, then out again to the small terrace open to the sky. We shut the door behind us.

There is silence, and it is thick and suffocating despite the thin and cold air that brushes my hair from my face. I had not realised it but I am hot and bothered, and the icy wind feels good against my face and neck. I lean against the stone, close my eyes and I reach deep inside myself: I feel the deep churn of the mountain; a huge presence in my heart that soothes my agitation. My heart is jumping and dancing like a bird on the wing. My hands shake and I cannot for a single moment tame my thoughts into any sense or meaning. The Song of the mountain helps me to breathe, to calm and to steady myself. I shall be having very stern words with Aragorn over his overly dramatic guards – they have frightened years from my life.

_What could have happened today? What nearly happened?_

"What happened?" I ask, echoing the voice in my own head and it is certainly not the first time that I have asked. My voice sounds steady again. I do not think on what occurs through the door – I put real, physical effort into not thinking on it.

Thranduil leans against the balcony railings. He no longer wears robes; he is clad in only the thinnest of garments but right now he seems more a king to me than ever he has before. His white undershirt billows in the wind and I see a body lean and hard silhouetted beneath: he is sinuous and graceful in his movements and I had not seen it before. Divested of his kingly attire I see just an elf, and when he brushes his golden hair from his face something within me clenches and stutters: it is so familiar to me, and yet so alien. He is Legolas, and yet he is not. He is my elf tamed, worn and wearied, and yet still just as strong after such impossibly painful years.

"Whoever shot at us was a ghost," he says quite honestly. He does not look at me; the endless rolling world before us means more to him than it does to me – his eyes see much further than mine do. "My son is many things, but I would be a fool if I did not recognise his skill. There are none that can catch him unawares, not as he was today. We were walking, and then I was to the ground and you have seen him as he is now. I am sorry Master Gimli but I can give you no more than that."

"Someone has tried to kill you today," I speak flatly, and he nods.

"And instead, my son was almost lost."

"But he was not," I point out. He gives me a wry smile but that is all.

He watches the world, and I feel the world. We are silent for a long time and I know that we both strain for a sound from within… I know we will hear nothing. Legolas will bite through his own tongue before he will cry out. After a time Thranduil leans back and thumps the heel of his hand against the balcony – it is the lightest of blows but it speaks much of what happens in his heart. He is frustrated and without anything to take his frustrations out on.

"Estel's guard are well trained," he tells me. He says it to himself though. "I am sure they are searching quite thoroughly…"

He trails off and I do not prompt him – it is clear that his mind is far away. I try to imagine how this must be for him: far from home, a guest where he has always been lord. Legolas is the only family left to him, his only child, his only relation left upon these shores. He cannot even conduct the search for whoever has done this.

I imagine the frustration he must feel, but I can do nothing to relieve him of it. I do not know him well enough, I do not know the words to say and I am unsure as to whether I wish to say anything at all. There is still annoyance flickering in my gut, and it is to this that I turn my attention.

I had been ready to commit violence to those who cried 'assassin'. I know now that they were perhaps a little swift in their assumptions, but even so I have lived my whole life through without such feelings, no matter the situation. I have felt the fire in my belly that speaks of battle, and in a lively and heated discussion I have felt the righteous thrill of being victorious over those I might wish to best. I have had furious words with the elf before – long before we became friends – but never has it felt so cold. Never has it been so sudden… so overwhelming. The anger that I felt so briefly today was different; it was vast and so very unpleasant. I know not the source; I know not why my anger grows this way; I know not my own mind any longer, it seems.

_Ai, perhaps the Darkness has broken this foolish dwarf after all._

The door creaks open and I am ripped from my reverie so abruptly that I feel a lurch in my stomach. I had not realised how deeply I had sunk into the Song and my own musings, I had not realised how greatly I needed the respite of it. Aragorn emerges pale and stony faced, and he has thankfully taken a moment to change into a clean shirt. It is Legolas', but the ranger looks quite at home in the loose elven garb. He rakes a hand through his hair and shuts the door behind him silently, sitting softly against the stone wall.

"Faelwen has gone to join the search," he tells us. "Arwen sits with the prince – he sleeps now, a miracle in itself. I have given horses less sleeping draught than we gave him – he would fight the very sunrise if he were able."

_The prince_.

Aragorn separates his friend from what has just happened, from the unpleasantness he has just inflicted. It was not Legolas' flesh he has just cut and torn, it was not Legolas' blood.

"He heals quickly my lord; there will be no lasting damage. Knowing your son as I do, I am sure that he will be slightly more scarred but no less able in a week. Things could have gone far worse – the quarrel hit no bone, tore no muscle that cannot be healed. He was fortunate."

I see the tension drain from Thranduil, but only because I am watching him. His features are schooled tightly into a cool mask, his eyes are guarded and distant.

"Estel," he speaks, and to start his words are faint. He clears his throat, and when he speaks again there is no weakness in his voice. "I must thank you for seeing to my son; your foster father showed great foresight in teaching you as well as he has and Eryn Lasgalen is in debt to you yet again. But I must ask – what happens without these rooms? I did not come to Minas Tirith to be shot at, and I would hear what is being done about it."

Aragorn takes a deep breath but it is not a sigh, it is annoyance. He rakes his hand through his hair again but I know this ranger – he is deep in thought and at a loss without a sword in that hand.

"The search continues," he says, "but not a breath or a hair has been found so far. The top two rings of the city were blockaded and sealed, the halls and corridors are thick with guards but there is nothing. It is as though our would-be assassin became the very air, or perhaps melted!"

He is annoyed, and it is not helped by the fact that Thranduil looks to Aragorn with a face that speaks very plainly of disappointment. It is a crushing look, and I feel bad for the ranger but my friend is more than enough to stand up to elven kings without my pity or solace.

"I assure you, my lord," he speaks with a hint of iron in his tone and ice in his eye. "Were there anything to find, my men would have found it. Elf or not, we are well at home within these walls and this city is mine just as the forest is yours. Something else is afoot here, and I will learn it."

Thranduil makes a gesture with his hand and turns back to the railings. The woodland king is capable of expressing much with very little, and this movement of his both appeases Aragorn and dismisses him. Aragorn pushes himself back up to his feet and takes a deep breath. There is coolness in his look.

"If you will excuse me, I have matters to conduct. There are guards posted outside, they will fetch all that you need. Gimli…" he looks to me and his gaze softens. There is much there – I am an ally to him when he most needs an ally. Our friend will wake soon I would imagine, he is stubborn enough. "I have left instruction with Arwen but she may need your assistance. I shall be back before dark, I would ask that you keep my guests company until my return."

"You would have me stay?" I ask flatly.

I am itching to be gone. I would join him in an instant if only I might be able, but I recognise that my freedom these last years has made me quick to act and short on thought. I am a guest. Thranduil will not stay in this room if I am given leave to go, Aragorn needs my help right now and I am too tied up in my own thoughts to unravel this. Aragorn bows to me – the faintest inclining of his head but he is graceful and as always I feel a wish to abide by him. His eyes are as heavy as that of an elf, his manner humble. Drat him.

"You have until nightfall, ranger," I tell him quite certainly. "I am no nursemaid, but I am a friend. If your men cannot find this ghost then perhaps a dwarf might, and I am not accustomed to living by the leave of men – kings or no. Legolas could have got himself shot in the wood quite easily… we need not have come here for that."

He says nothing and I feel that perhaps for a moment I am being unfair to him, but the moment passes swiftly and he is gone with a bow.

I am left in turmoil.

~{O}~

Under any other circumstances I would imagine that the rest of the afternoon may have passed swiftly, but they are long hours indeed.

We have returned indoors and I sit by the fireside. Thranduil reads a slender book written in the looping and jagged script of the elves. He sits as though carved from wood, moving only to turn a page here and there and I can read nothing in him at all. My own focus switches frequently from the window as I mark the passing of the day, my silent companion, the fire and the sleeping elf upon the bed deep in the shadows. Arwen is gone, and I am glad. The silence is already heavy enough with the two of us not speaking – three would be intolerable.

My thoughts return frequently to my strange bouts of anger but I claw them back. I force a quiet in my mind for I will gain no answer now if I have come to none already: it is a mystery, and one that is making me itch so I turn my mind from it. Legolas should be awake by now.

He lies still upon his bed, still as he never is. Legolas sleeps so infrequently that it is a rare sight to me, and even when he does slumber he does so in the odd way of elves: his eyes open, his gaze upon the stars. Right now he is vulnerable, and it makes me uncomfortable because it is something I am unused to.

I know the moment that the sun sets because Thranduil closes his book with a snap that startles me, and he is to his feet with no sign of his long inactivity. His gaze flickers for a moment to his sleeping son but he turns away: his jaw is set and there is a great distance in him. I do not understand it… I do not understand him.

Whatever he may be ready to say to me I will never know, for there is a faint but certain rap upon the door just at that very moment. We both turn as a young slip appears, silent and serious. It is the guard again – the young one. He has very calm grey eyes for one so young, and we are read in a moment and our measure is taken. He bows to us both.

"My lords, I am sorry that you have been kept waiting this long. King Elessar has been detained by further developments, but has given me leave to provide you with news before you go to seek it out yourself." The look he gives to us is blank, but I have no doubt in my mind that he knows we were about to do just that. Thranduil meets his look with no hint of feeling at all. He is the centre of the room right now; tall and still.

"What such 'further developments' have detained him?" he asks, and if his voice is quiet it is no less imposing. At this – finally – the lad shows a hint of discomfort. He shifts, looks away… he is embarrassed.

"There has been a problem with the guard, my lord. There have been fights… on the sixth level. It was just after the prince was injured; the ruckus may have allowed the attacker to slip through into the lower levels and beyond us."

Thranduil says nothing, but it is the silence of a storm brewing. I speak first. I often find that I am able to head off Legolas if I allow him no time to build up a head of steam, there is no reason that this will not work with his father.

"What is your name, laddie?" I ask.

"Calder, my lord."

"Well then, Calder. You are to take me to these brawling guards and be swift about it."

I am to my feet and fetching my cloak in moments, although the lad seems at a loss. He stares after me, and remains staring even when I am stood before him ready to go.

"The king does not wish you away from the safety of your quarters, my lord. He was most insistent about that."

"Insistent or not I am going. Where is the elven archer, Faelwen? I have no doubt in your guard – tended toward brawling as they are – but it is she that will watch the prince whilst he sleeps."

I allow him no further opportunity to speak and instead look to Thranduil to see his intentions. He looks at me with the weight of a glacier but I have a purpose now, and although it is an unpleasant experience it is something I can forbear. He nods, briefly.

"I will wait with my son until his guard arrives and then I shall seek out my quarters. I have a letter to write to Lasgalen that I would have sent tonight, and then I will speak to your king whether he would have me or not."

Calder looks to us both, recognises defeat when he sees it and so wastes neither time nor effort in fighting either of us. He bows, although it does not feel particularly respectful, and then is gone with me quick upon his heels. I take a moment of my own to glance at the sleeping elf upon the bed, but there is no time. I trust Faelwen just as I trust Idhren and Almárean – when it comes to Legolas I trust none better… he will be safer in their care than he is in his own.

I am gone, and I follow Calder through the corridors of Minas Tirith.

~{O}~

This time when I walk I pay more attention to what is about me; I have a thing to do now and my mind is focussed. Once we reach the main corridors and tunnels the place is all a-bustle, filled with serious guards and soldiers all with their own purpose. I turn my attention to my companion and after a time I realise that I have paid him a disservice in calling him 'lad' this whole time through. He is not so young, perhaps. His face is boyish and his sandy mop of hair gives the impression of one far younger, but now I see that there are lines about those serious grey eyes. He does not smile, he is very quiet, and I note now that he has the careful and precise movements of a seasoned fighter. Our silence is not an uncomfortable one, but I break it in any case.

"Calder is a strange name," I tell him.

"I have never known any other, my lord," is his simple reply. In a narrow passage we stand to one side to allow a phalanx of soldiers to pass, and when we begin again we are silent once more but only for a while. With his next statement I have a hundred questions answered, and a thousand more to ask. "It was given to me by the rangers who took me in."

Ah, the rangers. I understand now the silence in him, the stillness – I recognise it now for what it is. I know another who is this way; who does not step surely and boldly across stone but rather ghosts as though tracking silently through the wood… who is all but invisible as the wind. This lad is one of Aragorn's own, and is almost certainly here by that fact alone. I had wondered why the king of Gondor might allow one so young and so unknown into his own guard, to bring him so close so quickly.

"You are of the Dúnedain?"

I cannot help the doubt that creeps into my voice. I have met the Dúnedain, and he has not the look of those men that I met at the Fords of Isen. Those men were darker, broader about the shoulder and as noble of feature as any man can be. The young man at my side walks with their watchful silence, but he is lean and quick looking and far fairer in colouring. I am being rude though, and the mildly amused look that I am given tells me so.

"I know not my parentage, but the hand that raises a child is the only one to speak of, is it not?"

I harrumph. It is agreement enough and I say nothing more on the matter. Were Legolas here he might have stopped me from such rudeness, or should he be in the mood to do so might have at least rescued me from the hole that I have dug for myself, but he is not here. Instead there is only the silence that settles between two strangers who have nothing else to say to one another.

I am rescued from falling back into my own thoughts when we reach our destination.

The disgraced soldiers are held in confinement in a guard room, and although it is not a prison the air about the place makes it seem so. We walk in the open to reach it; we are far from the deep tunnels and out upon the open levels of the city. The guard room is a good sized and sturdy construct recessed into the mountain, but with windows and a door open to a well groomed courtyard. In the gloom I see the distinct signs and impressions that this area belongs to the guards of Minas Tirith – this is not a place for trade or homes or revelry, we have left that far behind. We are tucked into the side of the mountain and although I try, we move too quickly and with too much purpose for me to work out which level we are on. We are high, but I have walked a lifetime through this mountain. The outside feels alien to me right now.

It smells of dust and old leather in the guard room but it is swept and scrubbed. A pitted table sits with a single, drunken stool beside it and two guards snap to attention as we enter. They are older, worn and with eyes that have seen far too much, but they glance at Calder with a grudging respect. He waves them to their ease and barely glances at them, and I wonder again at this man by my side, for a man he is. I take a moment to tell myself this, and to stop thinking of him as a lad. If he is so respected here I do him a great disservice by it.

Calder leads me past the guards, through this small room and into a larger expanse. The ceiling opens up into rock and the walls throw their arms wide, it is bright and clean and dry but it is a prison nonetheless: a soldier's prison. The whole far wall has stout iron bars floor to ceiling, and behind them sit five miserable men.

My companion does not enter all of the way into the room; I leave him leaning against the entrance where a weighty door of riveted oak hangs open to let in the light. He folds his arms and seems at ease, but I feel oddly alone despite his presence. I stride far into the holding chambers of the guard, deep where shadows dance from the guttering and smoking torches about the wall. There are many, and this is by far the most pleasant prison that I have been in, but a prison it certainly is and there is no escaping it.

I fold my arms about my chest and stand before them, and when there is no reaction in the men within the cell I clear my throat loudly. One flinches, another looks up with guarded eyes but the rest ignore me absolutely. They are beaten and bruised and bandaged; sorry specimens indeed full of their own shame. They watch the floor, or their hands, or nothing at all.

"I am Gimli Gloinson," I tell them. "Who would speak to me of what happened today?"

There is silence but I hold my ground. There is one soldier – tall and broad and with skin leathered by sun and wind. He is the one who has looked up, and although he does not meet my eye there is life in him; more so than the others. There is shame, just as there is shame in them all, but there is something more there. In him I see anger and affront, and so I focus my attentions upon him.

"You, hoi there. Stand and speak. Tell me why those that guard the walls of Minas Tirith were fighting amongst themselves like hounds, tell me why a visiting king can be attacked in your city and his assailant slip freely away."

There is silence again, but the same soldier looks at me now. There is something in the look I am given – I cannot tell what it is, but it cuts me to the bone. It is like seeing into an abyss. I give little time to their silence; I feel anger stirring in me again and although I do not sink into thought on it, neither do I allow it to pass unnoticed. It is the same anger. It swells within my chest too fast, too sudden, too choking… this anger is not warranted and for a moment it is all I can do to breathe through it. My chest hurts.

"The elven prince is well favoured by his father," I tell them softly. "He will be the next to visit you, and I wish you luck indeed."

I turn as though to leave but my pretence is not necessary; I am stopped by a soft voice before I have taken a single step. It is rough and hoarse, deep and weathered but it is gentle and it stops me in my tracks.

"My lord," speaks the same soldier, and he stands and steps forth. He holds his side, pained, but he straightens and claws together the tatters of his pride. He seeks redemption, even in this act, and I find myself pitying him. I do not know what the punishment will be for these men, but I do not believe it will be anything compared to how they will punish themselves.

"None believe us."

One of the others shifts, but it is there and then gone. I look at this man and I see him: the full flush of his manhood, strong and tall with clear eyes so unafraid to meet mine. He is worthy of his position, I see it.

"What is your name?"

"Einar, my lord. Son of Eimas."

"Well, Einar son of Eimas, what makes you think I might believe you any better?"

"I have heard of you," he steps closer again. One of the other men looks up, roused by the growing confidence in his companion's voice. "There are few men who have not heard by now the tales of the nine walkers: they are the history of Gondor as well. The elven prince has been friend and protector to our king since his childhood: for his attacker to have slipped free because of us, for us to have failed. My lord, there are no words for it…"

He trails off. It seems there truly are none, but I wait patiently. I have spent too long with elves for words to impress me, and so I remain rooted and silent and soon enough he recovers himself enough to continue.

"You have seen much," he repeats. "Perhaps you might find meaning in my words and perhaps you will not – our fate will be decided no matter what I say here – but know that we did not quarrel tonight. We are friends, some of us since lads. We have fought against the armies of Mordor together, we have trained together… we are _friends_. No heated words were spoken, no foul committed. We were simply… angry: suddenly, and unaccountably angry. We fought because we could think of nothing to do but fight, and then it was gone and it was over and now we are left here. Something is wrong, my lord, something is terribly wrong and you must believe us!"

"Anger…" I repeat faintly, feeling my heart turn to ice.

"Nay, my lord," the soldier shakes his head. He looks hopeful that I listen, his eyes burn with the insistence that I hear him and believe him. When I glance to the others they now all look up, I have the attention of them all and I see the same look upon all of their faces. Not one of them disputes this tale, not one of them doubts it.

"Not anger… it was _rage_."

TBC

* * *

**Well chaps, from this point onward I'd suggest you pull up a chair as it all gets a bit heavy from the next chapter. Who is the would be assassin? What is affecting Gimli and the denizens of Minas Tirith? Something is very wrong, and I'll be completely honest; things have to get a lot worse before questions start getting answered!**

**Thanks to all of my reviewers - guest and otherwise - and likewise to those who have favourited and followed this story. I'd love to get to know you all so a quick review is all I need to know you're there.**

**As always, I hope you've enjoyed this and I hope you have a wonderful day.**

**MyselfOnly**


	4. Chapter 4

Faelwen stands at Legolas' door and if I did not know her as I do then perhaps I might be given pause to approach her. She is a fair example of her race right now: still and cold and distant. Her look softens only slightly when she sees me but neither of us pause for conversation. She allows me through, and I leave her to her vigil in silence.

When I enter the room I must pause: I sigh greatly and close my eyes for a moment. Strength… I must have strength.

"By the very name of Mahal, what do you think you are doing?"

The elf is up and struggling his way into his tunic. I can see that he is unsteady on his feet and his chest and shoulder are swaddled in bandages, but it does not stop him for a moment. The clothes he struggles into are not the clothes of a prince but rather the warrior garb of the woodland. I understand its meaning, but it makes me no happier about it.

"I am getting dressed, Gimli," he sighs as though I am a fool. He struggles a moment longer and I let him, and finally he lets out another, more frustrated sigh. "Help me?"

Had it been a demand I might refuse, and were I less worn I might argue with him but he asks me very simply… one friend asking the assistance of another. Legolas does not ask for help very often, and so I groan and go to him but I am not gentle. He takes my rough treatment silently and I bring my temper back into check, softening my actions. When I speak it is chiding but it is calm. I have been afraid for him, and I cannot be angry any longer.

"None would think less of you for resting, Legolas."

"I cannot seem weak Gimli. The injury was meant for my father, not for me… Mirkwood is not strong because of a Ring it is strong because we must be nothing less." He looks to me and I see in the rigid line of his jaw, the pride and defiance in him:

_I must be nothing less._

I understand it. Eru curse me I understand the logic of it, but it makes me no happier to see my friend this way. When he is dressed and satisfied I take a seat and closely watch him braid his hair with clumsy movements, examining his face for any sign of discomfort but of course there are none whether he feels it or not. The only outward signs of his pain are the ginger movements he makes, slow and careful. I know that should we have company right now I would not see even that.

"I slept too long," he sighs. "I have missed much, I would imagine."

"You slept because sleep was needed… perhaps I should have drugged you weeks ago. And yes, you have missed much."

And so I tell him.

Legolas pulls himself back to sit cross legged upon his bed. I fetch him some bread from a table by the fire and he eats it to satisfy me, and all the while I speak. I tell him of the anger I have felt since coming here: the way that it has stricken me from out of nowhere, the way that it has blinded me and choked me and has then gone again. I tell him of the guards on the sixth level – brawling when their watchfulness was most needed – and what they have told me this night. He listens thoughtfully, and when I am done he is quiet for a short time before he speaks.

"You were angry before we came here, my friend," he points out carefully. I had expected it.

"I know that, but this is different. I know my own heart Legolas, and although I still cannot explain the anger that I have felt toward you in recent weeks, this is not the same. It feels almost as though the rage I feel is not mine; it feels as though it has been placed in me, then taken away again with no reason and no trace once it is gone."

He nods again, for he believes me. He trusts me.

"You have not felt it?" I ask, and it is a question that has been gnawing at me the whole way back from the soldier's prison. I hear my own voice and I could kick myself for the tone in it; there is a questioning there that Legolas will be able to understand in a moment, he knows me too well. If I have been affected, if I am weak enough to be influenced, then there is no shame in it if he has felt it too. He shakes his head, and when he looks at me it is with an apology.

"I think perhaps I have no more room within me, my friend. It is crowded enough in here as it is."

I nod, but it feels wooden and I turn my gaze toward my own hands.

"I wish to take my father back home to the Greenwood, Gimli. It is not safe for him here."

"That is sensible," I agree with a slow nod, glancing out at where the smell of rain and wind drifts in from the open door. Out, away from here. "The passes will still be open if good time is made, but I do not believe your father will agree."

"He will argue as much as is considered seemly, but he will go by my decision. I am responsible for his safety. As much as he is my father and I am his son, he is also my king, and I am his captain. We cannot always be both."

I nod again. I feel as though I have spent the evening with my head bobbing about upon my neck and so I stop myself. Gloin and I have a relationship much similar, although for far fewer years. As a younger dwarf I do not believe that I was the son expected of a lord, and I will admit that it came between us at times. Legolas and Thranduil do not choose one role or another out of dissent, but rather because they cannot always be just a father or just a son.

"I would understand if you wished to stay here," Legolas offers… it is a way out for me. There is no weight in his voice – indeed, it is studiously void of anything that might be considered thought or feeling at all. He gives me the choice without judgement or blame should I decide to stay here, and I am so very grateful to him for it. Returning to Eryn Lasgalen after we have so soon left, and with such memories left behind me… it is a cold weight that settles in my chest and makes it ache. I force a smile upon my face although I am not sure that it reaches my eyes.

"Do not be foolish," I tell him. "Who will look after you if I remain here?"

~{O}~

"Although I understand it, I cannot say that I am happy," Aragorn tells us.

He is strained, I can see it, but he is also no fool. What happens in his city is a concern to him, his mind is filled with it. I can see that it is a shame to him that a guest – a visiting king, no less – has been attacked within his own walls, but he understands prudence. He will not fight this for the sake of his own pride: the elves will leave if the elves choose to do so, it is no business of men, but he is not happy… not happy at all.

"Are you even able to draw a bow right now, Legolas?"

"I need only draw one better than a man, and it would take more than a crossbow quarrel to the chest to have me so impaired."

Aragorn does not stand but rather paces; his hair dirty and mussed from endlessly running his fingers through it all of the day and most of the night. His clothes are rumpled and he looks angry rather than tired, but it is anger that only those who know him well can see. To any other he might seem worn but just as calm as he always seems. Aragorn is a mystery to most, but I have seen him lose three drinks in the space of a morning and I have seen him wrestling with Halflings. I have seen his grief and his rage, I have heard him laughing with complete abandon – he has a very good laugh. I know Aragorn.

"When do you plan on leaving?" he asks.

"Tomorrow evening. We have lost too much of this night and I do not wish to leave in daylight. Today we will rest and make preparations, and we will leave as a party of four only: the fewer people who know that we are to leave, the less chance of anything going awry."

Aragorn flinches at the implications but lets it pass him by.

"Five," he says firmly. He meets Legolas' eye without any difficulty at all and his gaze is just as hard, just as un-swaying. "I would have one of my men go along with you. If I cannot grant you safety in my own city and I cannot go with you myself, then at least let me have one of my own escort you home. In truth I would have an entire battalion accompany you if I thought you would not hide in a tree to lose them at the first given opportunity."

I harrumph, just to remind him that I am there and have no intention of climbing any trees for any reason at all, and for a brief second I see the glimmer of amusement in those serious eyes, but it is there and gone again in a moment. He holds Legolas' gaze for a long time, and much is said there before the elf finally nods in agreement.

"You would send the ranger lad," I guess, and the look I am given is affirmation.

"I knew his father, the man who raised him. Calder came to me for sanctuary and for work, and although his upbringing opened my doors he has risen within the guard by his own skill. The lad is quite exceptional. You have spoken with him?"

"What little he speaks," I huff, but I will admit that I am not adverse to the addition to our group. "If Legolas has no complaint, then I have none."

"It is settled, then," Legolas speaks. "We leave at nightfall tomorrow."

He goes to collect his things to leave but Aragorn comes forward and grabs his wrist, stilling him and drawing a look so intense, so focussed it almost has weight to it. He looks then to me, and for a moment it is just the three of us in the whole city – all others fall away.

"Tomorrow," Aragorn tells us. "Tomorrow, my brothers, it will be just us three. If I am to lose you so soon after your arrival, I would spend what time I am able in your company. I have missed you both more than I can ever put word to."

Legolas smiles – one of his true smiles – but I am able only to blush and mutter something under my breath that even I am unsure as to the meaning of, and Aragorn grins. The years do not sit upon him when he smiles that way and I find myself unable to help myself: I smile back, and I meet his unwavering gaze with my own.

"Tomorrow." I promise.

~{O}~

Of course, had I known what the king of Gondor had in mind for our time together I might not have been so eager for it. I have rested a few short hours and am dressed, I am ready for the day and I await the arrival of my friend so that we may head off to our pursuits. But I have found something, deep within my pack. I sit on the edge of a chair and I hold it in my hand, and a thousand thoughts and memories clamour in my mind, each vying for attention. There are months and months of memories held here, right in my hand at this very moment and I am stilled. I am choked, right to the very brim of my heart and it seems so very silly to me, so very childish that an object can hold so much meaning. I roll it around in my hand and hold it between thumb and forefinger, and I remember.

"You kept it," a voice speaks. His voice is soft, careful, and also surprised. I clench my hand quickly and I slip the acorn into my pocket, although I do not know why.

"It was a gift," I reply. "Of course I kept it."

When I look up I am stripped of everything by what I see in his face and for a moment I cannot think of anything to say, because there is nothing _to_ say. It is affection, it is warmth, but it is also sadness. It is everything the elf feels for me, writ right there upon his face and I do not know what to do with it. I have never had a friend the way we are friends, and sometimes I still do not know what to make of it. The acorn is a milestone. I did not always have a Legolas.

He breaks the moment because he knows I cannot and he grins. He turns, moves away and suddenly I can breathe again.

"You are well enough for this?" I ask his back as he moves to look out of my windows to the troubled sky without. I see him shift and test his own body so that he may answer, and when he does I am pleasantly surprised to find that it almost sounds like the truth.

"Perhaps," he admits, "and perhaps not. I ache, but I would say that endurance is something I am becoming accustomed to."

He turns and gives me another grin to soften the words into a jest, and it is required that I give him a sour look in return. I do so. I will play my part if he is to play his.

We leave our rooms and behind us falls into place our shadow for the day – Faelwen, our companion by necessity. She is subdued. She is not the Faelwen that I know, but I also know that today she is not Legolas' friend or mine; today she is her prince's guard and so she is all business and watchful eyes. There is no joking between us or conversation at all, but instead I feel safe knowing that nothing will get by her watch.

We meet Aragorn at the stables and we are nothing but jokes and merriment once we are together. I am glad to see my little red lady, and she is quite certain to reprimand me for not visiting her prior to now. With a bitten hand and a trampled foot I spend a good deal of time making her ready for the day, and both the elf and the ranger tease me for finally finding a horse as poorly tempered as I am. I had forgotten what they can be like when in the company of one another, and I tell Naurwen at length of the weaknesses in their characters and how wronged I am, and how brave. They grin like fools, shoving at each other and they are both far too old for this nonsense but I endure, just as I must always endure.

We are surrounded by a veritable army of guards and soldiers but we three have made a decision that we will not pay any attention to them at all: they will not ruin our day; we will not acknowledge them whatsoever. They keep watch so that we need not, and so we are saddled and ready to go in our own time and then we are gone. Admittedly, we are gone in the centre of a slow moving phalanx of clattering hooves and dour faces, but we are gone nonetheless.

Once we are out of the city it is better for us. Aragorn leads us to a field to the west of Mindolluin, where the bulk of the mountain dominates the sky but the land is rolling and pleasant. It is easier to forget where we are, although we are still upon a field fed upon the lives of men. The Pelennor is flat in the minds of everyone, and here it is not flat at all. It is a small thing to distract us from what once happened here but it is effective, and when we stop for the day our guard space themselves out so that they are far from us. They cannot overhear us, they cannot interrupt or intrude. They are small figures in our peripheral vision, keeping watch upon a field where we cannot be approached without being seen. We are as safe here as we are ever going to be.

The horses are released, and the three of us stand for a moment to take a breath of the air and to stretch ourselves.

The grass is already darkened and flat, frost bitten and worn but it is still thick and soft beneath our boots. Winter ground does not smell of bruised grass but rather cold soil, and all that comes to me on the wind is more of the same. I have spent so long within woods of recent times that I almost miss the scents of tree and of sap and leaf, although I will never breathe a word of this to the elf. The sky is a pale grey – nothing to distinguish it at all – but I am simply pleased that it does not rain. The wind has my eyes watering and my beard springing about in a shivering dance, but I will admit that it is good to feel fresh air in my lungs and I am not the only one.

Aragorn looks more himself than I have seen him since arriving here. He never seems truly tidy, there will always be a ranger inside of him and it makes the outside of him look permanently moor swept and rained upon. His eyes are light and pleased, his smile faint but true and he seems as though the burden of an entire kingdom has been taken from him. He breathes deeply, roots his feet deeper into the ground at his feet and turns his gaze to the horizon. I wonder if there is any regret in him at all. I wonder if, for a moment, he misses his freedom. I know in a moment that he does, but I also know it is not regret that he feels. There is no room for regret in the hearts of men as great as Aragorn.

Legolas stands with his face tilted to the sky and I know that he is breathing more than the air out here. He scents more than we do, hears more than we can. He is reconnecting with his Song, and right now I see before me everything that I cannot understand in him. I do not understand what makes his eyes seem so alien, I do not understand why he seems so painfully young and yet so old and sad at the same time. I do not understand how a creature that looks so fundamentally similar to dwarf and man can yet be a thousand leagues different – he has more in common with the wind that tangles in his hair or the grass beneath his feet than he does with us.

And yet here we stand: an elf, a man and a dwarf upon a field and beneath the sky, no more great or worthy than any other for just one afternoon.

~{O}~

"No more!" I announce, "I must catch a breath!"

I break away and Aragorn looks to me with horror for just a moment before he is set upon again. He has no time after that to watch me, and so I find myself a patch of ground that is less muddy than the rest and I sink to my rump with a wheeze. My arms and legs are like dead weights, and after a moment I fall back until all that I see is the grey sky above me. I can hear the other two, and I smile to myself.

Sparring is not the pursuit I might have chosen for our last day together, but I will admit that I cannot think of any better way we might have spent our time. I am exhausted – we have been at it for hours – but my blood sings in my veins, my heart thrums in my chest and I feel better now than I have in weeks.

It is all that we can do to keep up with the elf. He has his knives only, I am armed with axe and of course Aragorn has his sword but between us it is all that we can do to keep him busy. We have teamed together, Aragorn and I, and although the elf seems as though he is enjoying himself enormously he is running us ragged.

I hear a crash and a light laugh, a curse and I sit up. Aragorn is running after the elf and this is no fighting style that I am aware of, this is boys at play. Legolas laughs again delightedly, dancing across the muddy field as though across air. Aragorn is far heavier and seems just as tired as I am, but his grin is just as broad. He breaks away and comes toward me, and he is down to the ground with arms and legs spread as he catches his breath. Legolas comes and looks to us with a brow furrowed with bemusement.

"I was wrong to think that a hole in your chest might make this lighter work for us," Aragorn breathes in consternation.

"You cannot be worn already," the elf chides him. "We have sparred all day before, we have not been at this for long at all!"

"It has been most of the day, and I was a far younger man when I could keep up with you Legolas. Even in the best of my years I could never keep going until you were ready to put away your knives. Now I am far older, and I am no elf."

I see for a second a flash of something in my friend's eyes, there and then gone. I recognise it… I have seen it before. Our mortality terrifies Legolas, and although he forgets sometimes there is always something to remind him, especially now as our years march onward. When my grandfather was a young dwarf, Legolas was as he is now. When my beard is grey and my eyes failing, Legolas will be just as he is now. His forest will be gone and this age will pass and always, he will be just as he is now.

"I do not believe that it is your years speaking," he recovers himself, folding his arms. "I believe it is all of the fine food and wine, and all of the time sitting on your behind."

Aragorn chokes a complaint, considers getting up but changes his mind. "Gimli, throw your axe at him," he instructs. I harrumph through my beard and shake my head.

"Throw your sword, this is a good axe. Sparring was your idea… you know well enough how he is."

Legolas sighs and rolls his eyes rather dramatically, but he gives in and folds to the ground before us where he sits with crossed legs at perfect ease. I see him flex his shoulder a few times but he seems satisfied with the result, and then his eyes are elsewhere for a moment as he scents the wind. It has changed direction and now pennants his hair to the side; a tangle of summer gold in a winter washed afternoon.

"It will rain," he tells us. "We have a few hours."

I consider the mud that I sit in and the damp spreading through my rump already, and I wonder for a moment whether it is even worth worrying about. I decide in the end that it is. No matter how long one spends on the road, getting wet never becomes more tolerable. For a moment I recall the guards who have stood silent watch over us all of the day and I wonder how we seem to them.

"I wish more than anything that you were staying, my friends," Aragorn sighs, "or that I might be going with you."

"If it weren't for my father then I would certainly stay," the elf speaks. His eyes are still in the sky, but he is here with us for once. There is hardly anything of the Shadow in him today and I count my thanks a thousand times over for it. I snort instead of showing it.

"You have been shot, but you would remain?"

The look he gives me is incredulous. "Of course! If you were shot, might you not wish to have words with the shooter?"

"I would be sensible enough to keep my head behind something solid and out of range whilst others did the seeking."

"You would not, and you know full well that you would not."

I shrug, for it is all that I can do without admitting that he is probably correct. My argument falls flat, but Aragorn comes to my rescue.

"You forget to whom you speak, Gimli," he gives me a look of understanding – of one who suffers just as I do. "Faelwen told me that he once jumped from a tree and broke his collar bone as an elfling, simply because it was the fastest way down. She says that Almárean nearly fainted dead away with fright. He has grown no wiser over time… not even a little."

"Faelwen tells too many tales," the elf mutters, but has the decency to blush. I try to keep the look of stern disapproval on my face but I cannot help myself; I can imagine it so clearly in my mind. I begin to laugh – it escapes before I can quash it – and it is a huge and booming sound. Still blushing the elf smiles, secretly pleased but abashed.

"My father was terribly upset with me," he admits, and cannot help a further wisp of a laugh. "But my mother waited until he had exhausted himself and left to steady his nerves before telling me to perhaps jump from a little lower. She always understood things far better than _adar_ ever did."

Aragorn is grinning ear to ear as well, and I can see that his eyes are also on the past now.

"Lord Elrond once told me that he fully believed my tendency to fall into rivers was because I enjoyed it," he tells us. "I was rather good at it, to hear him tell the tale, and he says that I made sure to fall into a river at least once a week. I recall nothing of it."

"It is complete truth," Legolas nods quite certainly. "I do not believe that there is any part of the Bruinen that you have not been fished out of. Your brothers and I became quite adept at it."

"Perhaps he might have been far less filthy as a man had he spent less time in the river as a boy." I suggest to the elf, and he laughs loudly. Aragorn gives me a sour look, and it is my turn.

I think for a time of a younger Gimli: difficult and quarrelsome, at constant odds with my father. I have not leapt from trees and I have not fallen into rivers. I think further back and I cannot help a small smile from forming so I bury it within my beard. Getting my playmates lost in a mine on a quest for treasure of our own was exciting, and then frightening, and then terrible but then exciting all over again. It certainly must not have been that awful an experience, because there were three separate occasions of it.

I open my mouth ready to speak of this but the breath does not make it so far. My attention is drawn away and I frown, unsure. There is a man stood not twenty yards from us – far enough to not make out his features but still give a description of him. He is slender, sandy haired and his cloak sways about him in the breeze. He is stood on a rise above us so I must look up to see him, and although he is hardly anything to look at his presence here is a complete surprise. There are two elves in our company, how has anyone snuck up on us at all?

There are many things that happen then, all at once and all of a sudden, but there is only a small part of me that notices. The rest of me is gone.

I hear a voice shout out and I recognise it – it is Calder, far away but sharp and urgent with warning. I hear the elf gasp, but mostly I hear a rushing sound filling my ears… it is my own breath, ragged and hoarse. I feel it again, the Rage, and it hits me like a hammer blow to the chest. I feel it and it consumes me, it blinds me: every nerve and muscle and sinew sings in a harmony of outrage as the call to battle explodes in my gut. It fills every part of me and by sweet Eru it _hurts._

I shake and I thrum with something so far past simple anger that I cannot even put name to it. I look up and the first thing that I see is the elf, right there before me, and he is all that I see. There is nothing of the field, nothing of the sky or the grass or the man who sits at my side. I see the elf, and all I know is hatred. I hate him. I hate him as I have never hated anything before in my life.

I remember every high handed insult, every air and grace he has ever affected, everything elven about him that I have ever known to despise. I remember the times that he has mocked me and ignored me, made a fool of me and belittled me. Dancing, ridiculous and childish thing: fragile, undeserving of such endless years. I feel rage, hate, and my heart hammers; a forge burning white hot in my own chest. He speaks to me but I do not hear him, I am to my feet and so is he. He backs away and I move forward: one step, two, and then I lurch toward him with a great bellow of wrath.

I see nothing else.

TBC

* * *

**Ahem.**

**So, firstly a big apology. This was supposed to be posted last week and it's also a bit shorter. I played with it a bit and decided I wanted the chapter to end here rather than where it originally ended. It does, however, mean another cliffhanger. We may all just need to accept this odd little habit of mine.**

**I happen to rather like this chapter. I enjoyed writing it, even though there was no Thranduil (Lindir's Ghost - you were correct as you so often are. I've gone from disliking writing the crotchety old goat to really enjoying the challenge of him) Some of you will know by now how much I enjoy writing the friendship scenes, and this one had oodles. And a little acorn reference, which gave me boundless joy to add in. HOWEVER. There won't be much time for all of that any more as we're finally getting to the nitty gritty. **

**A small plea here. I've really looked forward to posting this chapter, simply because I am rather fond of it. It'll break my heart if it's received by silence. Chapter 11 (which I'm currently writing) is turning into a sentient beast that hates me almost as much as I hate it right back, so a review on a chapter that all but wrote itself would absolutely make my day. Sometimes it helps to be reminded that they're not all Chapter Elevens, sometimes they're Chapter Fours.**

**Have I laid it on thickly enough yet...? :)**

**I hope you have enjoyed it, and I hope you have a wonderful day.**

**MyselfOnly xx **


	5. Chapter 5

My father kept hounds when I was a lad.

They were not pets, I was told. They were working animals: hunting dogs, and not to be fussed or petted or given treats. They were very large in the eyes of a dwarf who was very small: long legged and solid with shaggy grey fur and distant eyes. Even so I was very fond of them and spent endless hours out of the eyes of those who would stop me, trying to make friends with them. They would tolerate me for a time and then simply remove themselves from the annoyance that I presented, but I always believed that they were friends and just simply playing a game with me. They liked me in truth; I knew it, and one day they would come to me. One day they would give up their pretence.

I bragged to my playmates of it, so sure was I of what I knew to be true. The hounds were friendly, just slow to learn how to show it. Dwarven children know much of stern words with gentle eyes and kind hands. Dwarf men and dwarf women are not softly spoken or slow to temper, we are raised to speak loudly or not be heard. But we know love; we know to see beyond such things. I thought this was true with my hounds.

A smaller dwarf of my group – to this day I forget his name – listened closer than the others, and snuck into the kennels late one night to make some friends of his own.

I do not know what he did to so insult the hounds, but he was found ripped and bitten and bleeding. He was carried away – a tiny thing all in tatters – and although I still do not know exactly what happened to him, we did not see him again. The hounds were killed the next morning and I knew guilt and shame for the first time.

It was my first step away from childhood.

~{O}~

When I come to myself it is like waking from a nightmare: my eyes, my ears and my mind… they clear and focus so very slowly.

I see light and I know the darkening green as the day fails. I know the grass and I know the sky.

I smell the rain on the air, I feel the cold that bites me and I feel an ache in my hand. There is another ache; deep within me, but I cannot decide what it is that hurts and so I move onward. I focus on what I can hear, what I can see, and I put the two together.

The elf is on the ground before me on one knee. He bleeds from his lip and from his brow and a bruise begins to darken at his jaw. I clutch his hair in one hand and the other is raised, ready to strike. He has his hands raised but it is not in supplication, I finally hear his words and they make sense to me.

"Do not make me hurt you Gimli, I beg it of you. _Do not make me!"_

Legolas does not beg. I have never heard Legolas beg before, and I see the agony in his eyes. He could have stopped me a hundred times over, I am not too proud to admit it. He does not have my strength but whether on open ground or in the wood he can best me. He has speed and experience that I will never have no matter how many years I live, but Legolas will not raise his hand to me… not the way I have to him.

I drop him and I stagger backward.

The pain, I know it. My hand hurts from striking my friend… my chest hurts because of what I have done.

_What have I done?!_

I look about me, and although the rage has left it has been replaced by panic. It is not fear – I can best fear – but rather a shock that steals my breath from me all over again. I feel it gasping in and out of my chest as I look about. It has barely been any time at all; the guards are almost upon us but they are too far… we drove them away to keep our privacy, but it means they were too distant to stop what has happened here. Aragorn lies upon the ground, only now beginning to stir with a groan and a hand clutched at his head. I have fought through him to get to the elf.

"Gimli?" I hear a soft voice, and I shake my head. I look to the blood on my hands, the way that they tremble. _"Gimli!"_

I look up and the elf is back on his feet. He clutches at the wound upon his chest but he does not pay mind to any of his other hurts… the hurts that I have caused him. The panic changes but what replaces it is worse. Far, far worse. Legolas does not look at me with accusation or hurt or betrayal, but with concern.

There is something lodged in my throat, in my chest. It is hot and huge and I cannot breathe, _I cannot breathe!_ I fall to my rump, nerveless and dumb. My mind is blank and filled with panic, with horror. I need a moment… just a moment.

Legolas is quick. He is to Aragorn who is awake and complaining. He is sat up and composing himself just in time for the elf to meet the guards who are here; breathless and demanding.

I hear a tone of voice that I so rarely hear from him – he is bold and arch and so very elven. Few men know what to make of his kind and so few men know how to argue when the Eldar turn the force of that gaze, those years, their command upon them.

He asks why they desert their posts, why they have come here fretting like nurse maids. Our game has merely become over boisterous, for we are warriors all three of us. The king is fine, merely over dramatic just as all men of Gondor seem to be. We are to be left and no more be said about it. They are to return to their posts.

I chance a look as they leave and although I see chastised, grumbling faces from most there are two faces that quite plainly believe no single word he has spoken.

In Faelwen there are furious daggers and a promise that he will tell her the truth before the day is through, or he is in very serious trouble indeed. In Calder I see a hundred emotions churning beneath a fretful and dark face. He is giving away more in this moment than he has this whole time we have been here, and I know that he is choking back words of his own. Calder knows more than he has lead us to believe, and I resolve then and there to wring it out of him just as soon as I am able to string words together… just as soon as I catch my breath.

The guards go and we are alone again, and Legolas sinks to the ground carefully so that the three of us are in a line. We are silent for a long time, even after our watchers are beyond hearing and it is an awkward silence. What to say? What words could possibly be said right now?

I open my mouth and try to find the words. I try to think of something to say that might put voice to even an ounce of the remorse and grief I feel right now, but no apology seems worthy. Nothing that I say seems worthy. I am ready to try, for I am no coward, but the elf sees in one heartbeat what I struggle with and so he speaks first.

"I do believe there may be some merit in your claim that something is a bit off in Minas Tirith," he tells me, quite by the by and matter of fact as though we discuss nothing more than what we are to eat for supper. My words stick in my throat, simply out of surprise. I watch him look out at the sky and pull up handfuls of dark winter grass, carefully avoiding my gaze so that I am given privacy to find the ground beneath me again. He still clutches at his chest and he still bleeds, but he acts as though nothing has happened at all.

"You hit like a woman," I hear Aragorn mutter, and I am lost.

I laugh, but it is more a sob and I bury my head in my hands for just a moment. My hands shake, I hurt inside but what friends I have! The fear and panic, the grief and shock is replaced by something warmer and softer and although it is no less suffocating, it is something I can bear. Something I hope to bear for all of my days, if I am blessed enough.

I reach within me and I find the heartbeat of Arda. I feel it thrumming in the deepness, I feel it echoing through everything and I feel my own heart slow and steady until it is in time with the Song. I breathe deeply and I calm myself, and I find Gimli again. This time, the anger I feel is different. It is my own; it is controlled and part of me and gives me something to focus upon.

What has been done to me today?

"You are hurt?" I ask the elf, and I do not know why I bother. He shakes away my question with an impatient sound and finally takes his hand from his chest, finally wipes at the blood on his face. I can see the bruise blooming vivid red and purple on his jaw and I avert my gaze but see only Aragorn, who is blinking up at the sky. He is dazed, but he is back in our company.

"That was bracing," he speaks. He looks to me and although I see confusion in him, he trusts me. He is waiting to hear why I have just knocked him unconscious and seemed fairly set upon beating his oldest friend into insensibility. He is waiting, and I can see in him that he needs to hear it from me – he needs to know why – but of course the elf interrupts.

"Not here," he says firmly. "As much as I would learn what has happened today we should return; the rain is almost upon us and it seems we are no longer safe without the walls."

He stands, although it seems as though he hauls rocks up a mountain rather than his own body to his feet. He stands and his eyes scan around us just as I realise he has been doing this whole time. The mysterious figure is gone. He has been gone since I came to myself; it is as though he was never there at all. A ghost… our very own haunting.

We collect the horses and I sink into my own mind. I know that Legolas has called this brief break in matters so that I am given time to find distance, to reconcile things in my mind. I feel as fragile as glass right now, but I know that I will be quite right again if I am given silence and a small measure of time. He reads it in me just as he always reads me – he knows me better than I know myself at times – and so we ready ourselves for our return to the city.

The guards see our movements and they do the same. Aragorn goes to check on the elf and is shoved away, but the ranger is still unsteady on his feet and topples to the floor. I leave them to snipe at one another over whose fault it may have been and instead take a moment with my horse. I stand at her withers, one hand on her saddle and the other holding my axe. I have retrieved it from where I left it and should secure it at my back ready for our journey, but I am frozen.

What if the axe had been with me? What if I had not left it out of reach? I might have killed him… the moment in which I stand now could have been a very different moment. I hear his voice behind me, and I imagine what the silence would be like right now if things had been different today. What would I be if I had ended the Greenleaf?

_Well might he have deserved it._

The axe drops from my fingers and I freeze for just a moment before pinching thumb and forefinger to my eyes. My thoughts are not my own and my head aches fiercely.

Naurwen turns her head to me and velvet lips fumble at my jerkin until it is between her teeth. I am tugged and must stumble and right myself so that my thoughts are broken. I breathe deeply the sweet and dank smell of horse, the familiar scent of leather and metal. They are not the most pleasant of smells, but they comfort me. I hear the elf and the man still bickering as they mount their own horses, but I can hear something in their voices that tells me quite certainly that it is a pretence; a gossamer veil over their own anxiety and fear. Fear for me. I can do one thing for them right now, and that is to ease their concern.

"My head hurts," I tell them. I force my voice into sternness. "And you are making it hurt all the more. If you must bicker like children, ride ahead or give me a head start."

I climb aboard Naurwen with a mutter and a huff and I check from the corner of my eye. Aragorn looks relieved, but the elf is not fooled for a moment.

~{O}~

We beat the rain, but only by a hair's breadth.

Once we are back in the walls of the city there is a lot to distract me, a lot to pull my mind away from the inner chaos that clamours in my head and my heart. I see Legolas' shoulders tense and his bearing change as he enters the city of stone; his face becomes marble and his eyes become so very distant. It is difficult to bear the change in him… so difficult, when I need so very much for him to be Legolas right now.

When we reach our chambers Faelwen has had enough and the company of Gondor's king is not enough to retain her manners. She slams the door shut and demands to know what has happened today. She is alight with anger and Faelwen has a habit of slipping into her own tongue when vexed. She is worried, and her worry shows itself in a distressing tendency toward violence.

I tell her, and both Aragorn and Legolas listen intently without a word. They take in my tale and do not speak or show any sign at all of what they feel, but when I am done Faelwen is to her feet straight away. She announces that she is going to make preparations for our journey so that we might leave all the sooner, and when Legolas grabs at her before she goes there is a battle there between them for a moment. Grey eyes meet blue, something passes there too quickly for any of us to follow and when Legolas hisses something to her she looks incensed by his words, but then nods shortly and tugs her arm from his grasp.

I leave through the door that adjoins our rooms so that I might also change my clothes. I have blood on me – Legolas' blood – and now that I know it is there it burns me like fire. I know what Legolas said to Faelwen, I need not ask. He is telling her not to breathe a word of this to his father and I understand why.

I hear Aragorn and Legolas talking, and to this I pay more mind. There is little that the ranger can say, little that he can do now. The sun is setting and we are to leave soon, and the king of Gondor sounds weary. Were we to stay there would be more to discuss, but he knows just as we do: now it is down to him to investigate what happens in his city. There will be no further part in it for us.

Aragorn is frustrated and deflated and Legolas says nothing to ease his gloominess. It is as though the laughter of today has not happened. I pause in my own rooms, waiting until Aragorn leaves. He will meet with us once more before we leave so that he might say his farewells, but I cannot face him again just yet. I wait until he has gone.

I find the elf again in his garden and I pause for a moment by the door that leads into this sanctuary of his. He stands with his back to me out in the wind, the door open wide to the terrace and he is getting thoroughly wet. The rain is falling in earnest now; it sweeps the plains heavily and although sunset is still a short while away it is gloomy and dark out there. The wind that comes to me is sharp with the smell of ice and I shiver, but I make no move to either come forward or retreat.

The Shadow has Legolas and I wonder how long it has been troubling him. Hours or minutes, I do not know, but I have missed the moment in which he has been caught. Since the day he took on this passenger of his I have never missed its stirring, I have always noticed the change in him no matter how subtle or how he tries to hide it from me. Too much has happened these last few days. Too much has happened, and there was already much between us when we arrived. We have not even begun to unravel that and now there are a thousand more things unspoken.

"Will you speak to me of it?" he asks softly, his voice almost lost to the wind. I am a heartbeat away from refusing; a mere step from making light of what has happened but I stop myself. If any might understand the feeling of being overwhelmed by the will of another, of being forced to raise a hand against those who you have a care for… if any will understand then it is Legolas. If I deny him now it will be a betrayal of every time I have forced him to lay his heart bare to me. Legolas and I have much to make up for with one another, and so I tell him.

I tell him only briefly of what the rage felt like, because how long can really be spent in describing an emotion that all have felt at one time or another? I spend more time on describing how it came upon me so suddenly, how it was not there in one heartbeat and then there the next. I tell him how it took my breath from me, how it hurt, how the feeling of an emotion not my own has me all in knots and chaos. I am not one for speaking this way – I never have been – and so this is not easy for me. I struggle to find my words, I grasp at them and they slip from me like water through my fingers.

I am not the cleverest dwarf. I am not much versed in elegant words or song and neither am I an elf, free with my confidences with those who have earned them. I tell him, but it is difficult. Legolas does not interrupt me or show anything of what he thinks as I speak, but even so I know that he is listening to me as few ever have. I spend a short time telling him of how I feel now; how remorseful and yet angered that I should feel remorse at all. I am unhappy that he has been hurt and angry that I was the one to hurt him. I feel as though I have been wronged and used, and it feels as though the inside of my own skin is unclean.

I lapse into silence then, for I cannot think of anything else to say on the matter. The quiet between us is not uncomfortable though; it is oddly comforting to be here in the quiet of my friend. I recall our journey here and how many times I wished for nothing more than to be anywhere else, and with anyone else. How I had wanted even just one more companion so that I had someone to talk to through his silence. Now I realise how wrong I was to wish such a thing. These silences are precious to me.

"You know that I do not hold you to blame," he says to me softly, and I nod but it feels wooden. He nods back, pleased by my answer if not my ability to express it and I breathe freely once again. I had not been entirely sure, not completely. "You think perhaps it is the Shadow?" he asks me, and although there is no sign of it in his voice I know how difficult the question is for him to ask. He is terrified of the answer, terrified as he has never been through all of his years. The Shadow has damaged Legolas more than anyone else understands, but I understand. His courage is the greatest part of him, but his courage fails when it comes to the darkness that has so hurt him… that still hurts him now.

"No," I shake my head quite certainly. "It is not the Shadow my friend, I am sure of it. I felt the touch of the Shadow and this feels different entirely. This is the doing of someone, not something – did you see the man on the hill?"

He shakes his head and folds his arms, curling long and scarred fingers about his elbows and taking a deep breath. I flick him hard where the nerve sits at his elbow joint and he hisses, unfolds his arms and drags his eyes back into the room where we stand. I see him shake free of the Shadow but it sits there in his eyes.

"I did not tell you, Gimli," he speaks. He turns and walks further into the garden and out of the rain, running his fingers through a low bed of high ferns so that they sway and wave. "When you were… different, I felt something as well. Just for a moment, but then my attention was entirely elsewhere and so I could not think much on it. It troubles me. For a moment it was gone… for a moment I could not hear the Song."

~{O}~

Aragorn is at the stables when we are to leave, and so is his wife.

Arwen is beautiful in a simple dress of moonlight grey beneath a cloak of midnight; she is a study in darkness and light and she spends a while speaking with the elfling. They are right there with us yet they are a leagues away right now – their conversation is too quiet for me to hear and I cannot read in their actions what passes between them. Arwen helps him to ready Neleth with sure and practised movements that show that she is more than a dreamy Noldor, more than a maiden. She is the daughter of the Lord Elrond, and she knows how to ready a warrior. I leave them to it and turn my own mind to Naurwen. She is excitable and ready to leave, and so she takes my attention quite thoroughly for a while.

All three elves that are to travel tonight wear dark cloaks, plain and unremarkable and made by mannish hands. We wish to leave unnoticed and they believe that this will hide their race from passing eyes. I do not think they realise that what shows them to be elf is more than their countenance, but we cannot hide anything more than that.

Calder is as silent and still as he always is but my suspicions are confirmed; he has a haunted and faraway look that tells me he is troubled by something. I resolve to find out what it is just as soon as I am able, but before I can approach him I find that I have company. Aragorn stands before me with a look of remorse all of his own.

"I will find out what has happened, Gimli," he promises me quite seriously, and the look on his face stops anything I might say to lend some levity to the situation. We are all too serious right now, but Aragorn looks desperately unhappy with the way that things have happened and I do not want him to feel any worse. He grips my shoulder and I reach up to grip his wrist back.

"I believe it my friend, and once you have done so we will return just the elf and I. I have missed you at my side – with the company I keep there are times I would give my very beard for sensible conversation, and you are in my heart and mind in every one of them. We will be the three hunters again, just as we were. It is simply poor timing on our part that we arrived when we did."

He smiles at me – a true and warm smile – and I cannot help but give one back. He tightens his grip on my shoulder briefly and then the weight of it is gone. He moves to the elven king and as I watch him go I catch from the corner of my eye that Arwen and Legolas embrace. She is smiling, relieved, and I know that there is still much between them in need of resolution, but at least Legolas is willing to entertain it. I am pleased; friendship is not something to be freely given up, not over something that can be forgiven and not when the pain of the loss will last as long as an immortal heart.

Faelwen is deep in her own mind, and although I still do not know her particularly well I recognise the look enough to stay away from her right now. Her gaze flickers to her prince on occasion and I cannot unravel the look she gives him. I try to imagine what she might be thinking and I come upon a blank wall, and so I do not try. Instead I take this moment to approach Calder.

He watches me coming with guarded and wary eyes. His horse is a roan, rangy thing that is all legs. I take her muzzle in my hand and stroke her nose to hide what I do here and she allows my attentions. Calder leans against the wooden wall as though nothing happens at all.

"You know something," I tell him quite certainly. I had expected that he might deny it or ignore me, but after a brief moment of quiet he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

"All I ask is that we leave the city, my lord. I will tell you all once we are beyond these walls, I swear it to you, but we tarry here too long. We must leave!"

His last words are hissed to me, a faint whisper meant to avoid the ears of everyone else. I do not know if he has escaped the notice of the elves, but certainly Aragorn will have heard nothing of our exchange. I am unsure – I do not know this youth well enough to trust him. He seems honourable and indeed his fellow soldiers seem to think that he is worthy, but I do not know him.

_The silencing of the Song._

What does it even mean? I hear Legolas' words over and over in my head but I cannot imagine it, I cannot imagine it for even a moment. My Song is not the same as his; the Song of Mahal is like a heartbeat, like the rush of my own blood. It is there all of the time, every moment of my life but I must seek it out if I am to hear it. Legolas has tried countless times to describe how his Song sounds to him: a thrill, a shimmer, a hue and a whisper that cannot be detected by eye or by ear. He sees it with his fëa, it is a part of him and it is there all of the time: sometimes louder, sometimes quieter, but there. For it to be silenced, to be gone completely… can an elf survive without it? I do not know. They are linked to Eru in a way a dwarf is not, and I do not understand it.

"If any that I have a care for come to harm because of your secrets lad, I will visit it right back upon you threefold."

It is not a threat, it is the truth. I am entirely honest with him and he sees it in me, and nods. I echo the movement faintly, satisfied that he understands me completely and I look again to the elf. He is ready, and we must be going.

We lead the horses away from the stalls and into a covered courtyard. The ground is cobbled and the ceiling is very high – the king of Gondor is not expected to mount in the rain, it seems, and I am thankful for it although the wind blows icy droplets into my eyes with every heave.

Legolas and Aragorn embrace, and they pause for a while that way; golden hair gilt by lamplight mixing with dark. They are perfectly still – simply a man and an elf enjoying the presence of the other, acknowledging the sadness of their parting. They are brothers in a way that I cannot be a part of and I feel the faintest glimmer of envy at it, but then they are apart.

The ranger king nods at Faelwen and receives a respectful nod back. He holds one hand to his heart and bows to the elven king. Thranduil returns it but he also smiles at the man that he once knew as a boy, and then he mounts his horse – a tall chestnut, handsome and fine. Calder is given a different look entirely: it is serious and I do not understand its many layers, but the lad understands it perfectly and bows to his king and then again to his queen.

"I expect a letter once you are safely in the wood, Legolas," Aragorn calls out as the elfling pulls himself astride Neleth. "Do not leave it to Gimli, his penmanship is terrible."

"Yes, _naneth_," Legolas sighs, and then grins. It is sometimes difficult to be stern with the elfling and I give our friend a look that promises I will force his hand if I must. We settle ourselves into the saddle, I look one more time at my friend and his wife as they stand with heavy eyes and unhappy smiles, and then with a clattering of hooves we head out into the darkness and the rain.

~{O}~

I do not know what I feel, to be leaving Minas Tirith so soon.

I have looked forward to this visit since the summer, since escaping Lord Ionwë and his watch. I have looked forward to it since the moment that Legolas agreed to this trip, although at the time I would have looked forward to another trek to Mordor. I am in awe of this city and I have seen none of it. I have seen nothing that I wished to, nothing that I have not seen before now and yet at the same time I have seen entirely too much. I wonder whether all of the good things in this world will be sullied by some sort of unpleasantness. I wonder whether this is something that I should simply ignore, or perhaps accept it as something that I cannot change and enjoy my days irrespective. I also begin to wonder whether the elf and I are cursed in some way.

We ride through the city at a fair pace – not quite a walk, but not quickly enough to arouse attention – and I begin to wonder something else: I ride with King Thranduil, and I am one of only four that ride with him. A king should not ride with such meagre numbers; a king should be protected better than this, especially with such unknown darkness abroad. I have become guard to an elf, and although my father's horror echoes at the back of my mind I wonder why Legolas has not fought against this. He would not let us hunt with so few, so why now do we travel in such numbers when we know there is danger?

I resolve to ask him just as soon as I am able, but I have allowed myself to fall too deeply into thought. We reach the gates, we are beyond them, and then speed is all I know.

I do not know if Calder has ridden with elves before but I have, and I know their love for the freedom of it. Their horses are swift and I try to remember a time when racing at breakneck speed atop a huge beast like this filled me with blind terror. I have grown to enjoy it, and although I do not remember the moment when fear became exhilaration, I wonder if perhaps the horse upon which I now ride has had a thing to do with it.

Naurwen is small for an elven horse but she is fast. She will not ride at the rear, she wishes to be at the front and she has speed enough to edge easily ahead of the others. I also do not wish to ride at the rear and I can feel it in the bunch and flex of her muscles: she has much power left in her… she could outstrip these others in a heartbeat. She is enjoying herself enormously.

We run across a midnight plain and we give the horses their head. Rain sheets into my eyes and I cannot see, wind whips the air from my lungs and I cannot catch my breath. My face is numb from the cold and all I can hear is the thundering of hooves in my ears, my bones, my chest and I hear my own breathing but I feel my worries leave me like an exhale. I am stripped of everything but Gimli, the wind and my horse.

I cannot deny it, whether this is unbecoming of a dwarf or not I am different now. Running across fields and sleeping beneath the watchful eye of Ithil is more the dwarf that I have become than sitting beneath mountains and singing in the deep. I do not know when this wanderlust truly awakened, but I cannot deny it any longer: I feel at peace, and although my mind still churns and roils I feel in control again. I can breathe once more. I am not a dwarf who has become too much like an elf, I am a dwarf who has found himself with an elf at his side.

_Legolas, my friend – perhaps I do understand, after all._

We ride the night through, although not at the same breakneck pace at which we started this journey. Thranduil rides ever at the centre of our group with Calder at the rear and I take front. Legolas and Faelwen swap and change and move: sometimes to the rear or the side, but they are ever a mirror opposite of one another. They are experienced and fine scouts who have fought side by side for so long that there is no need for them to speak or confer, or even give one another sign of what they do. They anticipate one another's movements as though they read it upon the air, like birds in flight they are one mind.

The rain lets off before Ithil rides too high in the sky but instead it is replaced by a furious wind, far worse than any we have felt before this season. We are given a few hours reprieve after the rain but once the wind starts with real determination there is little we can do against it. It is violent and terrible, and the horses struggle against it at times. It is all that I can hear: the moaning and howling as it ebbs, rests and then renews its fury. We slow to a walk, and when we catch sight of the Anduin it is steel grey and sullen as it sails past.

We will not ford this river, not with its waves so high or its waters so swollen or so swift. If I'd had any choice we would not be taking this route at all, we would be taking the mountain passes as all sensible travellers should but Aragorn has said that the storms we have here are snow in the mountains, it is already dangerous in the heights. Instead we must ford this angry river, enraged by the wind and fed by the rains.

We ride beside it, battling the wind and our own rising weariness. It feels as though we have travelled twice the distance with the weather so against us, but we do not stop.

When the sun rises there is little sign of it. The light bleeds grey through the clouds, the dimness fades slowly into weak dawn and eventually it is more day than night. The horizon is very different now. Although we still ride upon open ground I can see the Ephel Duath as a darker shadow far against the leaden sky. It seems that all I can smell is water: the freshness of rain fallen and yet to fall, the earthy coldness of ground churned by hooves, the strangely metallic and bitter smell of the river. All combine with the smell of horse and my own damp clothes until I feel surrounded by it, infused by wintery scents of wind and rain and river.

By mid-morning the horses are blowing and shaking and long past ready for rest. Legolas has scouted ahead and leads us to a sheltered culvert thick with scrubby gorse and hawthorn. It provides protection from the wind and is big enough to grant us some space to ourselves. The horses are released, Calder goes to fetch water and Faelwen disappears to take first watch. I naturally fall into building our fire, but Thranduil stops me.

Like his son he wears Mirkwood green and brown with a sword at his side, and I know that he is meant to seem as naught but an elven warrior from the Greenwood but I imagine that Thranduil would look a king dressed in sack cloth and rags.

"In short, and before the others return, one of you will tell me what occurred yesterday. I had expected to leave the city in stealth, not for us to flee like thieves."

"It is nothing my king," Legolas tells him: "nothing of relevance."

Even if I did not know him as I do I would have been certain of his falseness, and his father knows him far better than I do. He narrows his eyes.

"Then why do you look as though you have wrestled a cave troll?" he asks. "Is that of no relevance? I would have you tell me in any case Legolas… indulge me with irrelevance, I hear so little of my son these days."

The elf sighs deeply, trapped. He is being given no choice in the matter and Legolas protects me, I know it. Thranduil may be resigned to the idea of his son being friends with one of the _naugrim_ but I cannot imagine this indulgence stretching so far as to forgive what I have done. The elf will not intentionally throw me to the wrath of his father, but neither can he deny his king.

"It was no cave troll," I speak up, and although Legolas shoots me an ice cold warning I wave it away. "It was me, my lord."

Thranduil leans back, the only sign of his surprise. He remains admirably calm and I feel a surge of some emotion – I know not what it is – but Thranduil is looking to me with patience, waiting for my explanation. I had not expected it, not at all, but it seems that I have earned the benefit of doubt from the elven king.

Bolstered, I look to the elf and with the faintest incline of his head I am given freedom to tell whatever I deem necessary. Legolas trusts me, and in a way it is my tale to tell. The king watches our silent exchange without comment but with waning patience, and so I think no more on the wisdom of honesty. I tell him.

My account is brief – indeed we are moments from losing our privacy – but I leave out little in the telling. When the facts are laid bare, weighted down by few embellishments of thought or feeling, there is little left to tell. I give an account of our days in Minas Tirith, including my conversation with the rowdy soldiers and what occurred on the Pelennor.

When Calder returns I am through and all the lighter for it. If I had expected to be questioned further I am disappointed; the king sinks into thoughtful silence and so I return my attention back to our fire.

Calder knows that he has walked in on something. Men may be less attuned to signs and feeling but a lump of wood could feel the tension hanging in the air. We fall silent at his arrival and he looks to each of us, but he is no fool. He is the odd man out in our group and he knows it well.

He offers to split the watch with Faelwen and Legolas, but the elf merely snorts and turns him down with less grace than is probably warranted. He says that he would be better putting one of the horses on watch then he is gone to find Faelwen. It is rude, but I feel poorly toward the lad and his secrets right now. Legolas can be scathing when he is in a poor mood and he is certainly in one now. It is best that he has gone.

I ignore the sour face that the youth pulls and instead set my mind to my own business. We do not cook, but I put together a meal from our provisions and all is ready once our scouts return. Faelwen remains at the mouth of the culvert upon higher ground but she eats well within earshot of us. We have made good time, Legolas tells us. The wind should be spent by the afternoon, and if we rest a few hours here there is a crossing that will have us over the Anduin by the time night falls again. We fall into silence whilst we eat, but once we are done I turn my attention to the young Dúnadan.

"It does not seem that you are going to speak un-prompted," I address him, "so instead I ask you what it is that you know of these matters in Minas Tirith. Either my friend is under attack or I am, either way I care little for your secrets."

Calder sits in thought for a time. After his silence has gone on for too long I consider repeating myself but then he looks up. He looks to each of us and withstands the weight of three elven glares admirably, but then his regard settles upon me. I do not know if he sees me as a more forgiving audience but it is me to whom he speaks.

"I told you an un-truth," he admits to me, "or rather, I did not tell you all." He pauses again and clears his throat. He pulls his knees in to his chest and seems very young to me right now. Very alone.

"I said that I was adopted into the Dúnedain but I was not so young: I remember my home well enough and I imagine that I would still be there now had it not been for my brother." I see something pass in his eyes – something dark and painful. He is finding this difficult and I wonder whether he has ever spoken of this before. Nevertheless he settles in resignation to tell his tale.

"Callen – younger by five years, born small and… _odd_. He always seemed so hungry, as though no food ever filled him, but as uncomfortable as he made us feel he was still a likeable child. In his seventh year he changed though I recall little of what happened – it is gone from my memory – but in one day my village was reduced to nothing."

When the lad pauses this time I do not believe it is by intent. He still seems very young, still looks terribly alone but now I see true horror in him. I believe that I was right in thinking he has not spoken of this to anyone in a long time. This fear and sadness has not faded at all. Even so he claws himself back together again, I see a muscle in his jaw jump and twitch as he brings himself back to where we sit in this wind swept culvert. I feel an inexplicable urge to stop him, to give him some distraction from this horror but I do not. The rest of his story comes out in a rush, as though he wishes it over and done and gone from him. It is an ordeal he wishes to be over. I cannot say that I blame him in the least.

"I was found bloodied and senseless, wandering alone and was taken in by the Dúnedain. I know images of a single night of fear, of men driven mad raising sword and axe to their families. My village was made ashes by its own people, and the only thing I recall with any clarity is Callen stood amidst it all. He stood there whilst our home burned," at this the lad chokes, "as my mother strangled my sisters, as families clawed one another into ribbons. He stood amongst it all, smiling, and he seemed… fed. He took our hatred and fear and our pain, he made it everything we knew. He ripped it forth and took it from us, and for the first time he was sated."

Calder trails off into silence. He has lost his wind and the remembered horror of this night has stolen his words. Many years have passed but I can see that little has been reconciled in his mind, for how can such a thing be reconciled? There is no explanation, no answer for him as to why such a thing might have happened or even _what_ has happened. I imagine that Calder has lived his life asking questions that cannot be answered.

I understand him better now, even if just by a breath. His silence, the distance in him… I understand it better, and I feel a surprising curl of pity for him. I wish to remain angry, as childish as it may be, but this is no way for anyone to grow into a man. So many horrors, so many questions unanswered; I cannot help myself, I feel my anger at him lessen whether I wish it to or not.

"You believe it to be him?" Faelwen breaks the silence. She seems more herself now that we are back into the air and beneath the sky. Calder nods, although he seems deeply unhappy to do so.

"The man on the hill," I answer for him.

"It has been fifteen years but I saw it was him in an instant. There's no mistaking it once you've known it: the hunger in him… like he would pull the very soul from a man if only he were able."

I admit that I felt no such thing, but I experienced something else entirely and so had no opportunity to notice anything else. I look to Legolas although I hide that I do so, and he is clenching and massaging his hands. It is a new habit of his and it speaks of his thoughts as clearly as though he has spoken them aloud. It is like the ducking of a bird before flight or the curl of a cat's tail before it leaps. He is thinking of the silencing of his Song.

Can anything be hungry enough to take such a power as Eru's Song from the air? I do not believe it… not for a second, not for a single beat of my heart can I accept such a thing. The elf meets my eyes and sees it in me, and I see the tension in him relax for just a moment. I wonder again at the trust he has in me but I cannot think on it for too long; Thranduil speaks, and my attention is taken.

"This answers nothing as to whether master Gimli is the target of your wraith or whether it is my son. I have doubts now that I was any target at all."

"I know nothing more than I have told you my lord. I remember few details of that night and I understand even less."

"It matters little," Legolas cuts off further discussion. "Once we are in the Greenwood there is little that can follow, and Estel is more than capable of dealing with this. It is a matter for men, and let men deal with the problems of men."

It is not like Legolas to say such things, not like him at all. Legolas is action, he is known for his reckless need to pursue matters whether it is sensible to do so or not. This reticence is out of character and I am not the only one to believe so. I do not know if this is another effect that the Shadow has had upon him or whether the silencing of his Song has rattled him, but it unsettles me to hear him so unlike himself.

I feel Faelwen's gaze like it is a physical weight but I do not meet it. I feel a need to protect the elf right now, although I do not understand why, and acknowledging her would feel as though we join forces against him.

I see Thranduil watching his son closely, and I also see how studiously the elfling avoids his regard.

"Our thanks for telling your tale," I acknowledge the lad, because our continued silence has him close to the edge of his nerves. Elves do not speak until they are ready to do so, I learned this long ago, but perhaps he expected further conversation. There will be none, I read that plainly in our companions, but he knows nothing of the three strange creatures with whom we travel.

"You have given us much to think on," I tell him. "Rest. I do not doubt that our conversation on the matter is far from over, but perhaps our bodies are more weary than our minds."

It is a poor excuse for our silence, any fool can see it, but he accepts it with an unhappy look. He has laid himself bare tonight with little to show for it, but in a way Legolas is right: we have come to much grief investigating matters of men before now. Perhaps we should leave this to Aragorn. Perhaps elves and dwarves should keep well away from such things, no matter our curiosity and no matter our need for answers. It is not just Legolas who has been changed by the Shadow.

Calder settles himself into his cloak in the manner of one well used to sleeping beneath a cruel sky and on hard ground, but it seems that he is not yet done.

"My brother destroyed a village in a night," he tells us. "Whether you wish it or not, if he has returned and if his focus is on any within this group, it matters not at all whether you believe this to be a matter for man or elf or dwarf."

He rolls himself over, wrapped tightly against more than the weather.

Legolas stands and walks out into the wind, and Faelwen watches him go.

TBC

* * *

**Oooh it's all a bit gloomy right now, isn't it? I will, however, point out that I have sent no one flinging off the nearest cliff this time around (Myshka!) I wouldn't relax though, this is not me changing my ways. I make up for it next chapter :)**

**I suppose an awful lot has just gone on without any action. Questions have been answered and more questions have taken their place, and I'd be delighted to hear your ideas on where you think things are going, your views on Callen or even if I've just completely lost you. I'd also like to apologise to those who were enjoying seeing a bit more of Aragorn: I didn't actually realise that I'd enjoy him being there so much when I first did the outline of this story and unfortunately, he didn't really fit anywhere by that time. I may bring him back :)**

**Thanks as always to you all for your support. I shall try and get the next chapter up a bit quicker as it's terribly exciting and mostly edited already, and I do so enjoy telling stories. **

**To Spritta - if you read my very first Lord of the Rings fanfic, the acorn reference will make a lot more sense. It's called 'Acorns and Observations' and I hope you enjoy it :)**

**Enough from me, it's now time for you to drop me a quick hello in the box at the bottom there and make me a very, very happy lady.**

**Have a wonderful day**

**MyselfOnly**


	6. Chapter 6

I sleep fitfully. The sound of the wind enters my dreams and I awake gritty eyed and sore just a few hours later. My mouth tastes of ash and my heart feels heavy, but I shake it free and put it behind me. I lie for just a moment, gathering myself. I have dreamed of a red eyed demon, full of rage and hunger with the voice of a tempest. My mind seeks to make sense of things that cannot be made sense of.

Calder, Faelwen and Thranduil slumber on in our shaded culvert so I rise as silently as I am able. I join Legolas where he sits out in the wind drawing his knives across a whetstone, his movements careful and precise. I am gifted with a faint but warm smile through the tangle of his hair and I grip his shoulder as I move past to take my seat. I stretch until my bones pop and crack and I smell the rain still there in the air. It is late morning, although the sky is heavy and little light filters through such angry clouds.

"Have you slept at all?" I ask him. He rakes his hair from his face and looks beyond me, across the plains to the river. He has not.

"I cannot tame my thoughts," he admits. "Not so that I can rest."

I understand it quite well. Had I not been so bone weary I might imagine that sleep would have eluded me as well.

"I hardly know what to make of the lad's tale," I tell him. "It is a strange one that is for sure. Had I not seen the things that I have these last days I do not know that I would believe it at all."

"Our lives are strange, Gimli," he sighs, but there is an echo of playfulness in his tone. He looks askance at me and I grin out into the wind.

"That they are my friend, you will find no argument from me. But do you truly mean to leave this to Aragorn? Even after your father has returned home?"

Legolas takes a deep breath and sets his knives aside, draws his knees up and rests his elbows upon them. He looks tired to me, the thin planes and hollows of his face more pronounced in this light. My Legolas is lessening before my eyes, day by day.

"All I can think of is the Shadow, Gimli. I wonder what might have happened had I left well enough alone from the start. We both might be more whole now had I been less reckless, you are not the only one who tells me I am so. If I were less proud then I may have listened, and we have paid a heavy price for it."

I do not answer him at first. Legolas deserves that I put thought into my response but I feel a small sinking of the anger that I have felt toward him awakening again. It is my own anger, and so I quash it.

"You are reckless," I nod, for he has no argument there, "although it is not pride that makes you so but rather a foolish amount of courage. You could no more have turned away from a boy searching for his sister than I could, and would you call me reckless? This summer when we were found by the Shadow you were ready to return to the palace. Nothing that happened after that was your fault and so you will stop speaking this way. It is bad enough that I must watch you fade, I will not let you fall into such self-indulgence. It is not you, and it is selfish."

I had not intended such a reprimand to come out, but although I have surprised myself I feel better now that it is out. The elf merely nods. His face is inscrutable – I cannot read him at all.

"When we were on the Pelennor," he tells me carefully; "when you were stricken and the Song went silent… for a moment the Shadow awoke. It was with me again, stirring and stretching and ready to fight. The Song swiftly returned and it settled once more, but it sleeps far more fitfully now. It feels more aware, as it was in those first days."

He falls silent and I am horrified by his words, but I try to school my face so that it does not show. I have no idea how successful I am.

"I have never let fear stay my hand before," he continues. "I have always been master of it, and I know that it is selfish but I am frightened, Gimli. I fear this Shadow as I have never feared anything before."

I do not know what to say to him. Might he ever have told me this had circumstances not forced his hand? He is too secretive. I had not known that the quietening of the Song awakened the Shadow. He did not say anything… I did not know!

I understand far better his actions these last days, but despite it all this changes nothing. I am terrified for him, my heart breaks for all that he must endure but our fears mean nothing against what must be done.

"Legolas, you are the bravest creature that I have ever known. You will master this fear just as you ever do, just as you ever will, but you will master nothing at all if you run away like this."

"I do not run away," he speaks sharply, and finally I see a familiar flash in his eye, a scowl at his brow.

"It seems so to me," I shrug. I am fixed with a feral glare.

"Then you are mistaken," he bites, "and neither am I fading. I swear Gimli, you truly think me as fragile as glass. Do not judge me by dwarven standards – I am not as easily broken as you believe."

He is, he very much is, but my friend's strength is in his refusal to allow it to stop him in any way. Legolas keeps going, keeps fighting, no matter what has been done to him and long after any other might have lost hope. I sometimes wonder what place there is for my friend in the West. The elf before me knows nothing of peace.

"You would do well to remember what you are so ready to tell me, my friend. None will judge you for being afraid, but you are not alone. Afraid does not mean weak."

He snorts as though I speak purest nonsense but neither does he argue with me. There is a thoughtful cast to his brow but he is through sharing, he is unwilling to speak any further of Legolas.

"What think you of this strange ability that the boy has?" he asks instead. "It is a strange tale – I have never heard its like before."

"I have not, although I have heard tales of children born during the rise of the darkness… tales of children born different. Who knows how many walk the world, if indeed the tales are even true."

"I would believe it if they _were_ true, it is not too difficult to imagine they might be."

"Perhaps, for one who has been running around in a haunted forest full of giant spiders for the last age," I point out. "Even so, the elves will soon be gone from these lands and those of us left behind will remain with this legacy."

"It is certainly a concern, but I do not know what to say to you: the elves cannot help but leave; we can no more deny the call of the sea than we can stop its tides."

I wave his words away. It does not escape me that the words come from an elf who is very much denying the call home, but I say nothing; there is nothing to be done about it. "Perhaps I ask too much of you – you have fought a long time already. Perhaps I should return to Minas Tirith once you are home in the Greenwood and help Aragorn, but only as dwarves should help men."

"Oh, be silent Gimli," he gripes, scowling heavily but not angrily. "I will return with you, you need not shame me so!"

I did not intend to shame him, I spoke only the truth but he knows that full well. I say nothing more on the matter but my heart swells, well pleased that he is starting to sound more himself. His hand has not been forced – Legolas does nothing that he does not wish to do. This is his decision and his alone. Of course, it does not stop him from acting as though he has been manipulated in some way. I change the subject.

"You were fully against a hunt not days before now with so few elves to protect your father. I am surprised that you have been so willing to make this journey just the five of us; you have made it more than clear that you believe only yourself and Faelwen capable in any way."

"I have never had any doubt in your ability, Gimli," he corrects me firmly. "I would make a fool of myself if ever I did. My father was a warrior before he was a king. He does not wear that sword for decoration: he and Ionwë trained together; he is capable in his own right. I was not willing to wait for assistance from the wood; not with the passes so soon to close and not with so many questions unanswered. This was the best of a bad choice."

He does not say it, but I know that he does not trust men enough to travel with any more of them than he has to. Legolas follows my thoughts quite easily, and arrives at our next subject with me.

"Do you suppose that Aragorn knew of Calder's tale when he sent him with us?"

"Estel's trust is not easily won, and he seems to trust the lad. He certainly seems loyal and I cannot imagine that he would leave his king so uninformed to run off with elves."

"He knows," speaks a voice. I am proud that I hide my surprise – I have walked with the Firstborn for too long now to leap from my skin at every voice in the air. Legolas is unsurprised, but the skin at his mouth and eyes tighten. "Forgive me for joining you when I imagine I am unwelcome, but it seems I am the subject of your conversation and could hardly remain silent."

I know not if it is a rebuke but I hardly care. Calder sits with us, he does not look easy or comfortable in our presence but then he never does. He is brave, that is for certain.

"My king knew. He knew even before I came to the city, but only a part. He was our chieftain after all. My foster father told him of how I came to him, and I told him everything else before I left… he believed it was for me to tell you."

"And what did your king think of your tale?" asks the elf. He sounds bored but I know the curiosity in him, hidden behind his walls.

"With respect to my lord and king, who can ever tell what he thinks of anything?" the lad huffs. "He said nothing at all – after so long keeping my silence I had expected a few words from him at least!"

I understand his frustration and I also start to see something more in the lad. Again I feel my resentment fading. In truth he has done nothing more than keep a painful secret that he had a right to keep. He spoke when speaking was the correct thing to do, he has done nothing wrong. I do not trust him completely, but never would I trust any man that I have known for only a handful of days.

"Men can be slow at times," Legolas tells him, and offers a tight smile that does not entirely reach his eyes. "For good or ill, whatever happens now you need not carry this on your own."

He is to his feet and gone in a single movement. He appears no warmer toward the lad, but I know Legolas and I am surprised by his words although not quite so much as the young man at my side. Calder's usual impenetrable expression is gone and instead he looks unsure as to what has just occurred. I do not know him well enough to explore the matter, to be frank neither do I wish to. Instead I ask:

"Do you smoke lad? We are elf-less right now and these opportunities are rare. You must learn to enjoy them when you are able."

I dig out my pipe and after a moment am granted a thin but true smile. I harrumph through my beard. Men are easily distracted.

~{O}~

Of course Legolas was right enough about the weather. By the afternoon I am able to walk about quite easily without being knocked to the ground by the wind. It is still fairly boisterous, but the anger has gone from it and we are able to make our way again.

We set off at a fair pace but we ride to conserve the horses now. We have a fair distance to travel and as tireless as the elves may be, we are not all elves. If our resting times are to be so short then the horses will be spent before we even catch sight of Erebor, and I shall be in poor condition myself.

I cannot believe that we will ever find a place to ford the river, as swollen and wind tossed as the waters are. If Legolas says that we will cross then I believe him, and so we follow his lead across ground that is scrubby and tree dotted. The trees are gnarled and bent by wind and is it difficult terrain to ride, but our scouts lead us truly over the best of the ground.

By late afternoon the sun is struggling valiantly through the cloud and we are lit by sweeping beams of pale gold. The water goes from iron grey to goldenrod, the light shining through the turbulent waters to highlight the peaks. We come to a crossing where the river is wider rather than deep. It is fast, but we will find no better crossing than this.

"It is like ice," Calder hisses, scrambling back up the bank and drying his hand upon his leg. "I would consider the horses – they are too warm now to plunge them into such waters."

"Agreed," Faelwen nods and dismounts. We have not ridden them hard at all, but neither are they fresh. We would be poor masters indeed if we were to court injury to them so early in our journey and for little reason. We rest the horses for a short while and Thranduil calls his son to him. They discuss the path ahead and I leave them to it, instead I make a fuss of my horse with little care as to what people may think of me. Naurwen leans into me as I scrub and scratch at her, and it is all I can do to stand firm against her weight. I laugh and fuss over her all the more, and soon I am clustered by curious horses investigating what it is that we do.

"You have come far, master Gimli," Faelwen laughs. She comes to my rescue and spends time with her own chestnut mare. She is not as fine as Naurwen. None are as fine as my lady.

"I am ruined," I complain to her, but we share a look and she smiles.

When we cross the river it is harder than we had thought it to be. The horses squeal and plunge through it, and from the water that reaches me I understand why. It is painfully cold and swift. It is barely enough to skim Neleth's girth, but to Naurwen it is chest deep. After a time she makes a decision and simply ploughs ahead to reach the far bank all the faster. We are there just as Faelwen and Thranduil reach the far side but Legolas remains with Calder in the centre of the heaving river. His horse is reluctant and anxious, blowing and white eyed but Neleth is calm and sensible. Between them they quell the beast and lead it across, but much time has been lost.

By the time the horses are calmed and rubbed dry as much as we are able we are losing the light again. These short days are a nuisance but we cannot stop again so soon. We already take a longer path – we skirt the mountains, because if elves tells me that there is snow there already then I believe them – but we must make up whatever time we are able. Mirkwood elves have little to fear of Ithilien, but I admit to some level of trepidation at the thought of travelling such a shadowy wood at night.

Calder seems to be much of the same mind, for he comes up beside me once it is plain that we do not stop. The forest looms ahead – north to south and sweeping to block our path ahead. We ride straight toward it. He does not speak yet, but only because he is searching for the words.

"You have not seen a wood elf in a wood?" I ask him, but I do wait for his reply. "Heed them well and it will be like travelling in any other forest. Ithilien is a dark place, but not as dark as the Greenwood."

I sound certain, that can be said. I try to heed my own words, but Calder looks doubtful and as the light is lost to the encroaching night and the forest swallows us, I cannot help but feel that I am right back where I never thought to find myself.

I am back in a wood, in the darkness, with the blasted elf.

It is a blessing indeed that the sky finally clears, and despite a clear sky meaning a cold night I am thankful for it. The moon is waxing and hangs huge and bright, granting enough light through the loose canopy for us to do quite well enough. Legolas and Faelwen have left us for the trees and I feel far better for their absence. I hear them whistling softly to one another at times and their calls lead us straight and true through the easiest of the wood… the safer trail. Thranduil and I follow their guide, Calder follows us in turn and we do fairly well for a good number of hours. But of course, something happens.

Faelwen and Legolas continue to call but it is not this that alarms me – it is that their calls change.

The elves use their hunting language for simple communication over distances: it is _'come left'_ or _'do not proceed'_ or simply _'I am here'_. The archers of Lasgalen have their own dialect, used to give more detailed commands purely by the nuance of the sound. I do not know this language very well, but I recognise the change and I hear Legolas deploy his second in command to a position to the east of where he is and then they fall silent. To any other it might sound simply as restless animals or disturbed birds in the wood, but I know that something is amiss if they have switched to their own calls and so does the king.

We pull up and share a look, and I send out a call that questions what happens ahead. After a time we are told to hold where we are, and so we move into the deeper shadows to wait.

It is an anxious wait – indeed I feel like a fawn sent to ground but the king waits patiently and so must I. Calder looks to the both of us – he is even less informed than we are – but he is a soldier over everything and so carries himself in a manner befitting his position. Our patience is rewarded in the end when Legolas appears… a ghost from the darkness. He seems far more his old self after a night in the trees, wild and cold eyed, but there is no worry in him.

"There is a camp, no more than half a league ahead," he tells us. "A number of men have camped there but it is abandoned. They have left everything behind. We could find no trace of where they have gone to – it was before the rain, and that is all we can say."

"Was there sign of why they are here in this forest?" Thranduil asks.

"Perhaps to hunt," Legolas replies, "although we found no weapons, they may not have wished to leave those behind with all else. They travel light, whoever they are, although that does not mean anything. Most men have been soldiers at some point or another these days."

"Think you to continue?" I ask him, although I can read the answer in him already. Elves might continue in the dark, but we are not all elves and the horses make us noisy and conspicuous.

"There is a place to the east of here that will do us well until morning."

He gives us little choice in the matter, truth be told, but once we reach the hidden glade Thranduil is done with being lead about like livestock.

"I would see this camp for myself," he tells his son, and Legolas looks as though he chews bees over the announcement. I do not know how long it has been since Thranduil last clambered through the treetops but his son will not suggest any weakness or argue with him in front of strangers. Thranduil waits expectantly whilst Legolas wrestles with the idea before finally giving in and waving an annoyed hand. I am unsure, but I believe that I see a hint of laughter about the king before he leaves to join Faelwen. Legolas moves to help me make camp, although he mutters and snipes and complains the whole time.

"You need not stay," I tell him. "If you wish to hold your father's hand you need not sulk around here."

"Can you see anything in the darkness at all?" he demands. "Have you suddenly developed the ears of an elf? It might make things endlessly simpler for us if you have."

"Then go and watch in the trees, you are making my teeth itch. Calder will be far better company than you are right now."

He hisses in annoyance and turns as if to start a magnificent argument. I fold my arms, plant my feet and raise one eyebrow, and the wind leaves his sails instantly. Surely enough he leaves to keep watch in the trees with little more than a snarl and a whisper of movement. He will do far less harm up there.

"You court danger quite carelessly, my lord," Calder informs me quite matter-of-factly as he helps me with the packs. I imagine that it seems so to him, picking a fight with a fully armed and poorly tempered elven warrior.

"Gimli will suffice," I tell him, quite tired of being called 'my lord' so often. "And I can call him back if you wish to hear him bellyaching until his father returns."

Calder almost smiles, but he remains sensibly quiet. Legolas can hear us after all. By the time we have our accommodations settled for the evening the woodland king and Faelwen have returned. The _elleth_ looks to me with a question and I glance up from our small fire only long enough to gesture vaguely up at the trees. Naturally she is then gone to find her prince. I am starting to wonder at that.

"It is as my son says," the king tells me as our second scout leaves. "It is a camp large enough for a good number of men but if they were set upon I can see no answer as to how. There is no sign of a struggle or scent of blood, they are simply gone and a good number of days gone by the looks of things."

"And everything left behind?" Calder muses. "It is mysterious, if nothing else."

"Well our eyes and ears are in place," I indicate above us. "We can make better investigation in the morning and leave such mysteries behind. We have quite enough of our own, I believe."

"You have a very under-developed sense of curiosity," the king tells me wryly, and I snort.

"More so now than before I knew your son, my lord. He has more than enough for us both."

I am nearly brained by a pine cone that flies from the tree tops. I move it from where it has landed and set it aside.

"In any case, we have a place to be and a reason to get there. If you believe that this is something worthy of our investigation then of course we will investigate, but it is prudence and not a lack of interest that curbs my curiosity."

"Spoken like a true dwarf," the king comments, and I do not know if he is hoping for a reaction from me but neither do I care.

"That is well then, since I am one."

He slants a smile that does not reach his eyes and I cannot read it, but I notice that he also seems different since we have left the city and even more so since we came to the trees. He seems more at ease, and although I understand Thranduil to be Sindar and not Silvan it does not seem to matter when one has lived so long in the forest. Even Thranduil has had his heart captured by the pathless woods.

I begin to wonder how much I need to stand on ceremony with this king. He is a different elf now, and although he is still very aloof I see much of his son. It is difficult to unravel and I am not ready to test it just yet, but I like him much better this way.

We eat quietly but it is not an uncomfortable silence, and when we are finished the fire is allowed to burn low. It is cold – too cold to do without – but with the possibility of phantom men wandering about the wood we must make do. Thranduil takes a walk away from the camp and by his demeanour he wishes no company. I know that Legolas and Faelwen watch, and so I take my cues from the lad. I roll myself into my cloak, and I am straight to sleep.

~{O}~

I feel as though I have only just closed my eyes when I feel myself shaken awake. Legolas is there, his face pale and cold just as Faelwen wakes up the lad. I am confused at first – I am only moments away from my dreams – and so I begin to grumble only to be hissed into silence. I focus and look to the elf crouched by my side. His hand is on my shoulder but his head is tilted to the trees, to the sky: listening and sensing as I cannot. Through our contact I feel the tension in him, thrumming as tight as a bowstring. Faelwen is much the same and Thranduil stands defiant and proud at our centre, his head tilted like a hawk.

Calder looks to the elves and questions nothing. A blind man could read in them that something is amiss and so he is awake and alert in moments; his sword in his hand and his eyes to our elves. I do not know what it is that they see.

The tension bleeding from them is painful; the only move that they make is when Legolas turns to Faelwen and in a moment she is to the trees. I feel better with an elven bow watching over us, but even so I do not know what it is that she is watching for. Legolas turns to his father and mutters something in their own tongue, too low for me to catch, but Thranduil shakes his head sharply.

The tension is electric, like a storm ready to break. My heart hammers and I know not why. My blood sings and I do not even know what danger we face. I am to my feet, axe in hand and instinctively we move so that each is covered, back to back just a few paces from one another. I see the ranger in Calder now; he is sure footed and silent with all of the grace of his kind.

Just as I think that my nerves might shatter completely there is a cry in the distance, far into the trees and yet still too close for comfort. It is a cry of rage; a bellow, and at first I believe it to be a beast of some kind but then I realise that it is a man.

The elves do not turn to face the sound and this is concerning all of itself. Within moments there comes another, and then another and then yet more until the darkness is filled with insanity, for that is what it is. I have heard the war cry of a great number of men: thousands of voices raised in battle; stirring the blood of one another; finding courage. They were men fighting for their lives, their futures and their families. This is different. This is rage, pure and unsullied with no focus or cause. This is madness.

In a moment I count our strengths and where we are weakest. Legolas has chosen well and we are surrounded by thick tangles of tree and briar that any must fight through before we are reached. We have two elven bows – one in the heights – and it is complete darkness, but this is also a weakness and we are only five. Five, against so many voices!

I have no more time to think. I know not what signal sends them forth, but suddenly they are coming. The undergrowth crashes and rips beneath them, the screaming becomes louder as the distance is eaten by their mad rush and I feel a twinge of fear. Such a sound in the blackness, such an onslaught when we know nothing of what comes, nothing of what happens out there – it is frightening, but then I am not so unused to fear. I swallow it and I am ready when they are upon us.

In the faint light of moon and stars my first opponent is bleached free of any colour. Starbursts of black and white bloom in my eyes as I strain to see, as I seek to resolve this madman rushing toward me into anything I might be able to fight. My eyes strain, but I see enough.

He battles through the hedge and briar, flattening it in his desperation to reach us. I hear his voice, separate now from the insane chorus and I hear him gasp and shriek, winded but ready to tear himself bloody to get to me. His eyes are wild and terrible but too long has passed, I have seen too much of him for too long and I begin to see him as a man and not an opponent. I see his face, his youth… the clawed streaks across his face and I have time to wonder whether he has done this to himself.

Finally though, the arrow that I have been waiting for sings forth and he is struck down. He hangs dead, caught in the branches that have ensnared him completely and my reverie is broken.

Legolas and Faelwen have shot down a good number, but there are far too many and they are too close to one another. No matter how fast or how nimble of hand, two archers are not enough to cover us entirely in such a rush of men, and so as the first man breaches the thicket Legolas discards his bow and takes up his knives. Faelwen will cover us, for she has the advantage of distance.

We are attacked on all sides and all at once: their numbers are not endless, but it seems so in the dark with them all rushing as one. I realise now that our numbers are not the handicap that I had imagined.

Legolas fights with his blades as though he dances, as though they are an extension of him. He is grace itself; death born upon silver blades, swift and certain. Of course I myself am a mighty force to be reckoned with; a dwarf with skill taught by my kin, tempered and honed by Rohan, by ranger and by elf but I have a moment to pause when I see my other two companions as they fight.

Calder is not without gifts of his own. He is well trained with a style that I recognise from my time with the rangers of the north, but so too do I recognise inherent skill. He is swift and his movements flow like water… like he has little care for what happens about him. Each step is precise, each movement careful and measured. He handles his sword as though he has true love for the craft, and I understand entirely now the respect that has been shown to him by his peers.

Thranduil, however... _ai_ now that is a thing to be witnessed!

Legolas has said that he can handle himself well enough but in no way am I prepared for what I see. He is cold and deadly, precise and so very fast. His sword is a flicker of reflected starlight, he is poised and dignified and quite honestly I fear him right now. He fights side by side with his son and they are so different yet their styles complement one another perfectly. Legolas is movement and wildness, Thranduil is deadly calm but I can see the shadow of a thousand years of them fighting just so: a father and a son, side by side against the darkness.

The men attack us with no thought, no mind. It is a battle of force and numbers – all of the skill in the world is worth nothing when you are one against an onslaught; all rushing and blind with rage, fearless and without any regard for the blades we wield. They continue to voice their madness and it is deafening. Our battle becomes one of brute strength rather than skill, but our disadvantage in numbers is made up for by our sanity. We are the superior force here, and eventually it begins to tell.

As the morning begins to filter grey and clear through the canopy we are victorious, but it does not feel like a victory. We stand amongst the dead – perhaps thirty men in total – and this feels like a slaughter.

Faelwen re-joins us and sets to collecting her arrows, but her face is pinched and furious.

"What has been done to these men?" she demands angrily, yanking an arrow from the chest of one no older than sixteen years. "This was cruelty, not battle!"

"Here!" Calder calls. He is crouched beside one still alive. They are perhaps the same age but this youth is filthy, bruised and torn. He gasps ragged, wet breaths and it is clear to us all that he is not much longer for life.

"Why did you attack us?" Thranduil asks quite calmly, crouching at his side. The composure of the woodland king annoys me; he is just as neat and collected as he was before this fight and he seems entirely unconcerned by what has happened. This was butchery, and deserves some form of reaction.

The youth looks at him, blind and unseeing. The Rage has not left him, not even in his last moments, and his eyes are rolling and glassy. If he had the strength for it I do not doubt for a moment that he would be at our throats right now. Instead he looks past at where Legolas stands shoulder to shoulder with Faelwen and he bares blood stained teeth in a snarl. He hisses like a beast, and then dissolves into insane laughter interrupted only by a wet, hacking cough. His eyes do not leave the elf for a moment.

"Hungry," he gurgles: "so _hungry_!"

~{O}~

"Well I think we know now which of us was targeted," I address the elf from where I lean upon my axe. "I am never going anywhere with you again. You are returning to your father's palace and there you will remain."

"His words meant nothing Gimli," the elf snaps back. "Lend a hand or be silent."

We pile the bodies together although we have not the time, men or resources to do a thing but burn them. It is a poor funeral, but it is all that we can give them.

"Perhaps if you do not believe me then we should ask the opinion of another! Faelwen, what do you believe? Or Calder, perhaps you were paying some attention tonight."

"Were I to have an opinion – which I do not – I would ask that you not drag me in on this," Calder says quite certainly. "I will say though, there is no doubt in my mind that my brother had a hand in what has happened here."

"What did he mean, that he was hungry?" Faelwen asks, straightening from where she labours with these unfortunate men. She tucks her hair back away from her face but there are no answers from any of us, no clue at all. It was rather a strange thing to say, after all.

"These men have taken no care of themselves for days," Thranduil says, inspecting one of the bodies. He checks fingers clawed bloody, clothes torn and soiled. "This Rage, they have been caught in it. They abandoned their camp and have been lost since."

Days? I was caught for only moments; I cannot imagine a single day trapped in such a nightmare. I had not imagined this boy to be so powerful, to have so many ensnared and for so long.

"How is it done?" Faelwen now asks Calder. "He is not here now, he was in Minas Tirith befuddling Gimli just a day ago; it is not touch, that is for certain."

"I do not know," the lad tells her, turning to us all. "I tell you, you know everything that I know!"

"I was not '_befuddled_'!" I complain.

"How it was done, just as why it was done, is no question we will answer right now," Thranduil speaks, straightening. He dusts off his hands and I know that we are done here. He need not say it, it is clear all the same, and so we move to break camp. We have barely rested and what we have had was broken by battle of all things, and so I feel nothing but weariness.

Faelwen moves to collect the horses together and Calder sets to erasing all sign of our presence here. I turn and look to the elf – he has become too quiet and I see that his gaze has turned to the stars. I cannot read his expression… I cannot tell whether the Shadow stirs within him or whether it is simply dark thoughts that have him caught. I hesitate, and in my hesitation I miss my opportunity. Legolas snaps back into our present and claws himself together. He moves to collect whatever arrows can be salvaged, notices that I watch him and dismisses me instantly. Bow in hand he stalks away to stand on the outer edge of our group, there to watch out into the night. Something about his stance tugs at my gut – he is still tense, still too watchful. Something is not right.

"Legolas," his father speaks softly. "_Man cenich?_"

"_Ú-iston_," the elf murmurs beneath his breath, his voice almost lost. "Something is wrong."

Of course it is; why would it not be so? I have known the elf for long enough to trust his instincts, and so just as he is finished speaking I am already in movement but it is of no use. Might an earlier warning have done any good? I doubt it greatly, for what comes is too swift for me to do a thing to stop it.

Faelwen is there… like a ghost she is out of the darkness and before me. Her teeth are bared in a snarl as feral and wild as I have become used to with the _laegrim_. I am disarmed with a grip like iron and a twist that feels as though my hand is ready to break. I am slammed against a tree with enough force to drive the breath from my whole body – it is like being hit by a falling oak – and when I blink the stars from my eyes I can hardly believe what I see. Faelwen – my friend Faelwen – has me pinned, and there is cold hatred in her eyes.

There is no recognition in her face at all; she does not know me and so I am not protected from this wildness, from the _laegrim_ fire that I had never wished to see directed toward me. There is a knife at my throat, one of the pair that all of Legolas' archers carry. It is slender and more delicate than my friend's but no more deadly, and any thoughts I had toward escape are gone as the blade is pressed tight to my throat. I swallow and pull back, but I have no further thought when I hear Legolas gasp. I crack my head to one side and my blood freezes in my veins, my heart stutters and I struggle to believe what I see.

Thranduil has Legolas pinned just as I am pinned, but with a hand about his throat. The elf grips at his father trying to loosen the hold but the woodland king has the strength of the Rage and cannot be fought. As I watch he reaches over his son's shoulder and removes one of his blades. This is pressed against Legolas' sternum, and despite that he is being strangled by his own father he freezes and stills.

The look upon his face is heart rending. I cannot see Thranduil clearly but what I can see is certainly frightening. His rage is cold and cruel: there is a sneer at his mouth, his eyes burn with hatred and I cannot imagine how it feels to be looked at in that way when before there has never been anything but love. Legolas does not fight – he would do nothing to hurt his father – but from where I stand even I can hear the breath wheezing and gasping through his crushed throat. The elf's grip is weakening, his eyes fluttering.

"_Ada_," he gasps. "_Ada saes_…"

Calder breaks free of his surprise – he is the only one of us still free – but as he makes a move toward them Thranduil tightens his grip. The sound that Legolas makes is enough to have the lad frozen in his steps again. He is just as trapped as we are… his eyes just as wild.

"Faelwen," I beg, "he will kill him! Awaken, _please!_"

But she does not. There is no change in her at all. She cannot see me, she cannot hear the awful sounds of our friend as he struggles for air. I begin to panic and am ready to test whether the _elleth_ would truly be willing to hurt me, but she reads it in me somehow. I feel a white hot sting at my neck and then warm wetness. It seems that she is indeed willing to go through with her threat, and if she is willing to do so then perhaps so too is Thranduil. My panic spreads into full terror.

"Thranduil stop this, you are killing him!"

For a moment there is no change. Legolas is fading, his struggles lessen and I am ready to fight free whether I survive it or not, but then the elven king finally loosens his hold. Legolas sucks in air as though it is the first that he has tasted and is reduced to a ripping cough that is painful to hear. He chokes and gasps but it is a beautiful sound. His name slips from me but with no response. The elf is still held tightly by the neck and I am terrified, so very frightened.

"Faelwen…" I try again, but:

"She will not hear you," speaks a voice.

Thranduil and Faelwen do not react, Legolas is barely conscious but Calder jumps as though shot. He spins around as a figure joins us – a man, although I can barely make him out in the faint light of the dawn. Calder has his sword at the ready in an instant but the stranger holds a hand up in warning.

"Throw it to the ground if you will Calder. The elf and the dwarf will be dead in a heartbeat if you do not."

There is something wrong with his voice. It is as though two people speak at once through one mouth: two voices twined together in a jarring harmony that is unnatural, so very wrong. Calder staggers back at the sound, his sword dropping from nerveless fingers.

"Callen," he whispers, a raw and painful sound and the figure simply laughs. The dual tone has my blood turning to ice. My hackles rise at the terrible sound but even so, I strain to see the figure that approaches. He is filthy and torn. He is one of the men from the camp, but something is wrong with him and I need no elf to tell me that. A smile spreads across a borrowed face.

"Hello brother," he says.

TBC

* * *

**I actually didn't want to end this chapter on a cliffhanger, but if I went any further this chapter would have ended up about a bajillion words long. I'm very sorry to do this to you once again. I'm going to try to post the next chapter a bit faster so that you're not waiting for too long, however I'm not entirely convinced that you're all still there! I seem to have been dropping regular reviewers like crazy recently and have come to the following conclusions:**

**You're all being kidnapped, one at a time,**

**You're on REALLY LONG holidays and will be back soon! (Yay)**

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**Less self indulgence (FIVE REVIEWS YOU GUYS! REALLY?!) I'd like to say a bit warm welcome to two new faces who bumped my count from 'never posting the next chapter ever again' up to 'I give in' and cheered me up. To those of my regulars who did pop in to say hi, my endless thanks. Raisinet - you need an account so I can reply to you one of these days! :)**

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**I hope you have enjoyed this chapter, despite the endless authors note, and I hope you have a lovely day.**

**MyselfOnly**


	7. Chapter 7

The man approaches and for a moment I forget that I am pinned to a tree with a blade at my neck. I strain to see him and his countenance becomes clearer the closer he gets.

He is older, dressed in forest garb that is worn and patched. His skin is leathery and creased, he is bearded with an unruly mop of dark hair although I cannot tell what colour it may be. It is neither dark nor day, and such a gloaming can play tricks on the eyes, but it is no trick that I see a bloodstain upon his chest… a mortal wound. I do not understand how he is walking about this way.

He walks until he is side by side with Calder. He glances at him once until the ranger lad has obediently dropped his sword and then he comes closer… too close. He comes up to Legolas and the elf squirms, all but senseless from his strangulation but still aware enough to know that danger approaches. His father tightens his grip and the elf falls still, and the man reaches up to press his hand flat against the elf's chest.

"Ahh, here it is," he breathes and I feel ill. Such want, such need in his voice – it is obscene and I do not understand the feelings that are ripped up from my gut at the sound of it. The way that he touches Legolas: the eagerness in his voice sickens me, and although I have no idea what this man wants I know that I do not like it. Not for one heartbeat do I like it.

"Do not touch him," I grate out between clenched teeth, and my voice sounds thick and choked to my ears. I shift and I feel the sting of a blade again, I am pulled forward and slammed against the tree hard enough to have my ears ringing. The man pays me no attention, instead he turns to Calder. He has forgotten the elf for now and for a moment I breathe easier for it.

"Brother," he greets, and for all the strangeness of hearing two voices speaking as one I can hear real pleasure in his tone. He is happy to see Calder, whether the feeling is returned or not.

"How is this possible?" Calder chokes out. He has the look of a man who has had the world pulled out from beneath him: there is no sign of the silent and confident young man that we have travelled with; nothing of the graceful fighter. He is a boy… he is back in the village.

The man – Callen – strokes his own chest, looks down at himself and smiles. It is a disturbing act; just as possessive as the way in which he touched Legolas.

"This was the weakest of mind out of all of them," he glances over to the mound of bodies. "His son is in there somewhere. I could not reach this place in time but I wished to speak to you, it was a simple thing to touch him just that little bit deeper than the others. I have changed much, brother. I cannot wait to show you how I have grown."

"This is _grotesque_, Callen. You have done this to them?"

"Why, of course," the man seems genuinely puzzled. "I was hungry and I wished to speak to you. I knew that you would come this way and so I found them. It was a simple thing. They had little worth, they were bandits."

"They were men!"

"Even so," Callen – or the thing inside that is Callen – shakes his head and returns to where Legolas is. He strokes the elf's chest lightly and pays no attention to how the subject of his attentions recoils from him. "I had to see this for myself. You have found something wonderful."

He gestures – such a negligent motion of his hand – and Thranduil releases his son, although the blade remains at his sternum. It is the only thing that keeps him on his feet.

Legolas braces himself against the bole of the tree, wheezing and gasping. His neck is lurid red – I shudder to imagine the bruising that he will endure – but it is little time at all before the stranger is beneath the full weight of an elven glare. Legolas looks at him the way that Faelwen looks at me – empty and hateful and cold. He is barely restrained violence and twitching for the trees, but despite what he must be feeling right now he is himself.

"What is this inside of you?" the stranger asks. I do not believe he expects an answer because he does not wait for one, I am doubtful that he even imagines Legolas anything other than a moving oddity. "I have never felt anything like it before. I felt it awaken, so many months ago and so many miles away… I have been so hungry for so long. Such a thing would fill me, I am sure of it. I am sure."

His last words are quieter, a reassurance to himself. He croons it as though he has found a treasure but instead he speaks of my friend – of his blighted soul. He has no right to it, none at all and I feel as though I might explode with the need to wrest him as far from Legolas as I can.

"You are a carrion crow," I accuse, "here to take what is not your right to."

"I would imagine that it seems so," Callen replies, but his attention does not wander from Legolas. He looks at him curiously, gleefully. He turns away to face me and I wish that I had said nothing because with his attention elsewhere, Thranduil returns his grip to Legolas' throat. I grow endlessly heart sick of hearing my friend struggle for his air.

"I am hungry, master dwarf. I cannot recall any time in my life that I have not felt hollow and empty – so _hungry_ for every day I have lived. The hearts of men are easy to manipulate; the hatred and sorrow and rage right there to be brought forth. It is a deep well and it is simple to tap, and for a while I am sated. Elves are not so easy, they bury themselves deep, but they feel just as men feel."

He gestures to Faelwen: "The proud warrior; wild as the wind but jealous and resentful of what she has been denied."

To Thranduil: "The loving father, tired and lonely; wanting only to go home to his love, and yet held here by his heart."

To me: "And you are a feast all in your own right, my stunted friend. You are angry, but in truth it is not anger at all. So conflicted, so aggrieved. Dwarves are weak indeed. It was simple to blind you, such an easy thing to let your heart take over. The three of you are a feast!"

He turns to Calder and it is all that I can do to push his words aside, to focus on here and now. His words stir so much within me: confusion, anger, refusal… it cannot be so, I cannot be so weak. I will not hear it from him! And yet, I was taken over… he took my own mind from me and I was helpless to stop it.

"You, brother," he turns to Calder. There is a look of confusion upon his face, of wry amusement at the same time. "You I cannot feel at all. You are a silence to me. Had I known it I might have found you sooner, for I have looked… I swear that I have looked for you."

There is an ache there – a need – but it is not the same need that he has turned toward my elf. It is the need of a little boy for his big brother – it is the need for family that every heart feels. Callen looks at his brother with bright eyes; with a need for acceptance, with adoration. It is pitiful to see. On this borrowed face and surrounded by the puppets he has made of my friends – each of them such mighty warriors – stood as we are upon ground soaked by blood he has spilled by our hand… it is wrong.

Calder freezes but then there is a moment in which he finds himself again. He has barely known what to do this whole time; he has been frozen – horrified – but now I see him again, now the Calder I know reasserts himself. He has found the man who commands respect in the city of kings rather than the lost boy who wandered; he has found the ground beneath his feet. He narrows his eyes for a heartbeat, shrewd.

"You have found me, little brother," he says. "Had I known you missing and not lost we might have found one another sooner. We have much to speak of, much to learn of one another. I will come with you but I would not have you hurt my friends. I will come if we leave now and leave these good folk in peace."

"You will not," the boy shakes his borrowed head sadly. "And these are not friends to you, brother; they are suspicious of you. Each and all of them; too tightly woven together to ever untangle… like brambles and briars. You will never find a place in their world, none ever will."

"Even so, friends are earned, and I count them as such. Let them go Callen. Let them go and we will be brothers again, you and I."

"I cannot," the boy in the borrowed body shakes his head sadly. "Not yet."

He turns back to Legolas and I struggle but am cut once more, struggle again and am struck a blow about the temple with the same blade – too quick to do a thing about. Calder takes a step forward but halts once he sees how I am bustled about, how Thranduil tightens his grip yet again upon my almost senseless elf. He seems ready to scream, to tear apart the world but he is wrestling too much with his own mind. He is young, I must not forget it. A more seasoned warrior might have more faith, might make a decision but he cannot. To fight and risk our harm or to stand still and it be risked in any case? I know what I would do – I would fight – but although I try to catch his eye his focus does not shift for a single second away from the thing that his brother wears.

Callen places his hand against Legolas' chest again and Thranduil grips all the tighter.

"Now," Callen muses. "Let us bring this splinter out. Let us see what is inside here."

I meet Legolas' eye and for a moment our eyes are locked.

'_Bring this splinter out'_ he says, and I know what he means. He will bring the Shadow forth; he will silence the song of Eru and take away everything that the elf has built to keep it contained. He will shatter the walls, break down its confinement. He will destroy Legolas.

I see my friend and I know nothing of the knife at my neck, I know no one else here with us – it is just he and I in this moment. The dawn has brought early dew and it hangs in his hair like diamonds. The light is grey and tenuous and in it he seems gaunt and worn; so tired, but strangely he is still fair, still endlessly youthful and fine. He is sharp edges and hungry lines, an unbreakable heart. I see the strength, but I also see how tired he is… so very tired. Despite it all… despite everything, the eyes that fix upon mine burn like the forges of Mahal. The mantle of Elbereth will fall and fade before Legolas gives in to his weariness.

'_Do not let him do this Gimli, do not let this happen.'_

And so I fight.

In a burning cottage in a tree shaded clearing, I could not stop what happened. In another woodland clearing by firelight – so soon after being reunited with another friend – I could not stop what happened. So many times I have been helpless… so many times I have stood and watched such terrible things and been unable to stop them, but not now. Not this time. Legolas looks to me and his gaze is raw, wide open and I cannot stand to see him look that way.

As Callen touches my friend I fight, and nothing will come in my way this time.

I heave and I buck, I feel the blade at my throat catch and sting but I am beyond it. The elf that holds me is strong, but I am also strong. I am a mountain against an oak and I will not let this happen… _I will not._

I fight, and my fighting spurs something in Calder. He sees my desperation, he sees what I do against everything and moves forward quickly and urgently, grabs hold of his brother's shoulder… and the man drops to the ground. Lifeless, empty.

However it has happened, somehow Callen is gone. It is as though something snaps, as though a cloud shifts and the sun emerges. Everything changes. In just one moment, everything changes.

Calder staggers back as though burned, staring at the broken man that is no longer his brother as though he sees nothing at all. Thranduil gasps just as Faelwen takes a great lung of air but I am movement – I shove her away from me and she falls to her rump with no effort to stop herself. There she sits and there she remains, but I care little for it. I am across the ground in a moment.

Thranduil I also shove aside, but he keeps to his feet. Instead he is horror stricken; his hands held before him as though they are broken or burned in some way. He looks to his son who slides to the floor, but in his face I see something that sickens me. Thranduil knows what has happened; he has seen it all. He knows everything that he has done to his child tonight.

I shove him aside with no care for it – I have no mind for any but one right now.

Legolas is on the ground, his knees bent up before him and he struggles to control his breathing. He has been denied air for too long and he sucks and draws at it hungrily, but his eyes fix upon me as clear and bright as the night sky. I crouch beside him so that he is hidden behind my bulk, hidden from all. He is in splinters right now and I give him the space he needs to claw himself back together… to find Legolas again.

He reaches out and touches my neck, his hand returning slick and red. I remove it but I grip his wrist, his heart hammering beneath my fingers. '_It is well,' _I tell him without a single word and for a moment he leans forward, for a moment he rests his forehead against my chest. I touch his back lightly and feel the air heaving, feel the rise and fall of him. He is hot beneath my hand but he shivers, and I touch the back of his head just once.

"Your father," I murmur to him. "He remembers."

I am not foolish enough to ask him how he fares for I can see full well how he fares. I do not fuss over him, Legolas will be fine just as Legolas always is. He needs a moment… just a moment. I feel him nod against my chest and I feel his breathing change, I feel him take control. He takes deep draws of air and releases them slowly. He brings himself back together again and I feel his shaking lessen, and although faint tremors still thrill through him he claws himself into one piece.

He pulls away from me although his hand lingers at my wrist before we part. He grips it tightly once.

_I must be stronger than this._

I disagree – I disagree with everything in me – but I pull away and stand and offer no help as he climbs to his feet. He takes a deep breath, swipes his hair back and it is as though nothing has happened at all. He is cool and controlled, and he takes in the scene before him with dispassionate eyes.

"Faelwen," he snaps, "put this with the others."

The _elleth_ is still sat upon the floor, bewildered and horrified, but the voice of her captain has her to her feet. For not one single moment does the look of shock leave her and she takes great pains to avoid my eyes entirely, but when Legolas nudges the dead man at our feet she is up and moving. Legolas gives her direction, something to do and she welcomes it in a heartbeat. I cannot leave things the way they have been left with her – I absolutely cannot – but now is not the time.

Legolas casts his eye toward his father and their gazes meet but I cannot read what happens there. I do not know Thranduil well enough, I do not know either of them well enough to read what passes between them. For a moment my elf falters but steadies himself even as I move my arm ready to catch him. He grips my shoulder and within moments it is as though it has not happened. He is firm, he is resolute. He is my Legolas.

He says: "We must leave." And there isn't a single person within our company that will argue with him.

Calder is directed to fetch the horses and I take time with my flint and tinder to set spark to the mound of bodies that we leave behind. Faelwen has fled to the trees and the House of Oropher stand a million leagues away from us.

We stand mere paces away, but Legolas stands with his father and the two share words. I cannot hear them but I know that nothing is resolved and nothing is left as it should be. Thranduil is stiff and distant, Legolas is cool. They resolve nothing but what can truly be resolved? They are both as difficult as the other, both as reluctant to speak to one another of the things that matter. There are too many centuries there of a son who is an archer, a father who is a king. Too many for them to ever be any different. I would interject but I cannot, I cannot tame myself.

I feel as though my gut has been filled with hot stone. I feel as though my skin is too tight, as though I am about to fly apart but what good might it do? I would scream to the stars if I thought that I might feel better, but I know that I will not and I know that everyone amongst us feels the same. I will not be the one to fall prey to my heart… I will not be the weakest of us all.

_Dwarves are weak indeed._

I push the words of the puppet man aside. He knows nothing – _nothing…_ nothing of my people, nothing of my kind and nothing of my heart. He knows nothing at all of Gimli, and how dare he? _How dare he?_

When Naurwen returns I feel something of relief. I take a moment and lean against her bulk, hidden from the others. We are a silent group and I take the opportunity to breathe, to silence myself. I am no elf, I cannot hide my heart the way they are able and neither can I hide my thoughts. We will all speak, I know that we will, but dwarves would be speaking right now and so I wish that we were all dwarves. Instead I must wait until elves are ready, and until then I am left alone with my thoughts.

I run my hands over Naurwen's coarse hair. I entangle my fingers in her withers and then I shift to her head, breathing in huffed breaths that smell of grass and warmth. I scrub at her shoulder and she nuzzles at my hip. She is a fine horse, a fine horse indeed.

My thoughts catch up with me whether I wish them to or not.

_Where? Where do we go from here?_

~{O}~

We do not travel for long, only enough for the morning to bloom iron grey on the horizon and for the smell of burning men to be left far behind. We have not rested; we are weary and heart worn but we would have found no further rest in that clearing, none at all. We move because we need to move, we ride because we can do no less but only for a few hours.

We come to a river and we stop: surrounded by thin beech trees and cushioned by thick moss we take our rest. None of us say a thing, but we will be here long enough to see to our hurts and to take stock of what has happened.

Legolas sees to my neck and deems the wound ugly and long but shallow. He washes it with warm water that is fragrant with herbs, and when I grab his chin and tilt it to the light so that I may see his bruises, he allows it briefly before pulling his head away. His neck is red and purple; a riot of bruising, but there is nothing to be done about it. He says nothing and is to his feet in a fluid movement, muttering something about needing to wash and then he is gone.

Calder cooks, for once leaving me to myself, and the lad is deep within himself. His shoulders are hunched, his back presented to the group and every part of him speaks: '_stay away_' so for now we allow him his space. For a short while longer we all keep our silence and we wallow deep in our own hearts. I look to the river.

Legolas emerges from the brush, his hair dripping and free about his face. He carries his jerkin, his bracers and his knives in one hand and the thin white undershirt he wears sticks to wet skin in places. He gives me a chill just looking at him. He has the look of something free and wild as he stalks up the bank, his eyes a thousand leagues away and his jaw set, but then Faelwen is there.

They are too far away to hear, too far away to even see properly and so they have the privacy of distance. I feel as though I intrude but I cannot help myself. They speak, the fearsome _elleth_ warrior ducks her head miserably and he reaches out to brush one hand down her arm, feather light and brief. They stand very close to one another. It seems somehow natural to them.

"They were to be together once," comes a voice, and I start in shame. I have been caught watching and I turn away, busying myself with my pack. It is Thranduil, he has come to sit by my side and I have not noticed; I have been too deep in my own mind and in my own intrusions.

Together? I understand his meaning and admit that I had some suspicion, I had come to certain conclusions all on my own but I still cannot imagine such a thing. Not for Legolas, and not for Faelwen. Thranduil sounds strange, as though he is putting a lot of effort into showing no emotion at all and it makes him seem cold and wooden. I do not understand how he must feel right now but I cannot imagine that it is good in any way. I do not wish for him to hurt, I do not wish any of us to hurt, and so I seek to distract him just as I seek to distract my elf when he needs it.

"What happened?" I ask, and he shakes his head. His eyes shift to the sky, a habit he shares with his son. He lifts his shoulder in the slightest of movements and I have no idea how he manages to make a shrug seem so elegant and graceful. It is annoying.

"The Darkness came to the wood, the same as happened to us all." He takes a deep breath and his eyes half close. Hooded this way he looks insouciant and cold, but I know that he is merely remembering. "They came to me and said that if Legolas was to command the archers, then Faelwen would not fight and Faelwen would not give up the fight for anything. They said that there was no time for courtship for elves such as them, and that would be all until the Darkness was banished and our people safely in the West. Legolas swore his life over to me and to our people, and that was all. I do not believe either of them wished it, but then they were always far older than their years."

Thranduil taps two fingers against his leg, an oddly agitated gesture for one normally so well-schooled. His mind is on his son – why else would he tell me such a thing? I am surprised by his tale. I am unsure that it was his to tell me at all, but then any who spend time with either Legolas or Faelwen can tell that there is something more between them. It is hidden and distant and very sad, but it is there.

"He does not blame you, my lord."

"It would be better perhaps if he did. I would much prefer that than this silence."

"He is trying," I murmur, annoyed that I must make such excuses and fully aware that Legolas would be furious that I do. Thranduil understands this and holds one hand up, a silent plea that I say no more on it. He smiles, but it is self-mocking and annoyed.

"I have become selfish in my age," he shakes his head in disgust. "I do not mean to sound so self-indulgent. I have no right to be so maudlin."

He is right, he does not, but I do not say anything. It has been a hard few days – even for immortal kings – and so I take a deep breath and steady myself just as our two scouts approach. They separate further apart as they come closer to us, their moment of peace together broken and their pretence begun again.

Legolas sprawls to the ground close enough to his father to speak a thousand words without even opening his mouth. He positions himself ready for one side of his hair to be put back to warrior braids just as he begins upon the other. Thranduil looks surprised, then pleased, and then his face falls blank again all in the space of a single blink. He takes to his task with familiarity born of years and all is forgotten between them, all in such a simple gesture of trust. It is a scene from a time long passed into history, for I do not doubt that Thranduil was the first to braid his son's hair this way. It feels as though we intrude.

Faelwen stands before me, so unsure of herself and completely lost for words. She does not look at me; she is pale and I can feel the apology thick in the air, and yet she cannot find what to say. I do not know what the two have spoken of at the river bank but it seems both of them are ready to force reparations within the group, no matter how unpleasant. I do not like to see Faelwen so fidgety, it is Legolas who is most twitchy out of the two and I cannot stand to have more than one elf this way. I do not think that my nerves are up to it.

"Oh, be seated Faelwen," I sigh in exasperation. "You were all so ready to tell me that I was not to blame for what happened on the Pelennor, if you hold yourself to blame now then you make a liar of yourself. You think yourself so much stronger than I? I would certainly hope not."

"Not at all, master Gimli," she apologises to me, but it is not the same sort of apology. There is relief in her voice, a hint of her usual confidence and when she finally looks at me she searches my face for any sign of falseness. She finds none.

"Then we'll have no more of this. This is difficult enough without treading about upon eggshells. And you!" I turn and address the huddled lump that is Calder. "You are our only weapon it would seem, I would have you sat closer to me and not sulking over there. Come and tell us what happened when you touched that brother of yours."

Calder turns as though to fight me, as though to justify his melancholy or voice indignation that I should interrupt it but he sees something in my look that stops him. We have had enough of this… quite enough.

"Master Gimli has shamed us all," Thranduil speaks, and although that same twist of self-mocking sits about his lips there is a fire back in his eye. He sees me with something new but I cannot read it, he taps his son upon the arm to say he is done with his task and then stretches. He pulls his knees up and rests his elbows upon them, once again reflecting Legolas whether he realises it or not. "If self-doubt and consuming guilt was the purpose of our visitation tonight then I will have no man achieve what the centuries have not."

He summons Calder forth with nothing more than a cool gaze and finally the lad is overpowered. He sighs and it is a weary sound, but there is something more there. I do not know what happens in the heart or mind of the ranger lad, but we seem to have become companions if not completely friends. He is a part of us, no more or less than any other, and I think he is pleased for it. Either way he comes over and plants himself by my side although he is sure to huff loud enough to show his reluctance. He settles in quietness, and we give him just a moment to gather his thoughts.

"So tell us," Faelwen speaks. She lounges back, her ankles crossed before her and her arms braced behind. She seems far more comfortable than I feel on this cold and wet moss. "What happened?"

"You saw," Calder shrugs. "I reached out to stop him, I touched him and it felt as though my hand was both frozen and burning, and then he was gone. Dead at our feet, just as you saw it. I have nothing more to say, I do not understand any of this."

He sounds young to me; young and very lost. He keeps his thoughts tight to his heart and wears his mask well, but I have learned to see beneath it, even if just for a moment. He still sits as though he protects himself; bundled tight and tense like a knot of worry. He is giving me a headache.

"He could not take you over or read your heart," Legolas says quietly. His voice is hoarse and raw and I hide a grimace at the sound of it, letting him carry on because I will not shame him. "You are brothers, perhaps you were born with a resistance, or it was formed as you grew together as boys – either way we know now that you can force him out. He is not without some weakness."

"He has not taken you over either, Legolas," I point out. I do not wish to, I do not want to be the one to put voice to my concerns but it must be said. "If it is you that he wants, then why come at you through us? He could merely walk you away in the night whilst you sat at watch."

"I had thought on that myself," the elf admits. He examines his scarred hands, flexing them and feeling the stiffness still there, the deep residual ache that he feels sometimes. "It is the Shadow that has drawn him to us, the Shadow he wants, but perhaps it protects me from him. It stirred again when he touched me but this time long enough for me to feel an echo of what it feels – it is only a splinter, a ragged shade but it is enough to feel anger, enough to be afraid. It does not want his attentions any more than I do."

"It knows what he means to do?"

Legolas nods and I feel sick. The Shadow haunting him is more than he has led me to believe it might be… far more. He has spoken of it as no more than a stain, a scar upon his fëa. He speaks now as though it is aware – has he been lying to me this whole time? The Shadow adapts, the Shadow grows. Is there enough of it left within him to start again? My friend keeps his secrets deep but I would have imagined this to be the sort of thing he might mention, even in passing!

The elf sees it in me, sees what I am thinking just as he ever does. He shakes his head – the merest movement – and the look he gives me is tired. "It has never been this awake before my friend," he speaks only to me. "I did not know it was buried so deeply, or that it had grown."

"Then it is a seed and not a splinter," I muse aloud. The thought has my mind racing, my heart tripping again. This elf will be the death of me, I swear that he will, but I take a deep breath and try to think through the featureless panic that has crept into the edges of my thoughts. Think… I must think. "If the Shadow is awake and afraid then perhaps what has awoken it is friend to us."

"I had thought on that as well," the elf says with a wry twist of his mouth. "I would give him this unwelcome passenger in a heartbeat if it might sate his hunger, but there is something within me that says it is a poor choice. Whether it is the Shadow influencing me or not I cannot tell, but I have not lived so long by ignoring my instincts."

"Then what options do we have?" Faelwen asks. "We continue to Eryn Lasgalen, harried and chased by this boy and his puppets? Snatched at any moment and used against one another? If we stand and fight then we will be no better armed against him, and we cannot turn back. We will be in the same situation only surrounded by stone and further from home."

"I wrote to Ionwë after my son got himself shot again," Thranduil speaks. "He will be sending elves this way even now. We will meet them half way."

"Bringing all the more swords and knives to bear against us!" I huff through my beard and the king nods in agreement.

"The boy will be close upon our heels by now I have no doubt of it."

We fall silent for a moment, each of us thinking of the poor options open to us. It is Legolas who finally speaks; his voice soft and oddly calm as though there really is no decision to be made. Our path is clear to him.

"Then we stand and we fight," he says simply, and of course he says such a thing – he is Legolas after all – but for once I cannot find it in myself to argue. I see Faelwen; her eyes are distant and focussed on her boots but out of us all she is least likely to argue with him. They are far too similar in some ways and I see that she is holding her tongue; she will not agree with him, not until she has heard what her king has to say. I look to Thranduil and he does not argue either, and so I find myself shrugging. If they do not disagree then neither do I, but Calder has much to say on this.

"With the greatest of respect due to each of you, you are all insane," he shakes his head in disbelief. He gestures in roughly the direction from which we have come. It is the least control he has had since I have met him. "You think that this morning went _well_?"

"I think that we have run far enough," Legolas tells him.

"And I think you know little of elves," I add.

"_You_ are no elf," the lad accuses, "and yet you agree. We know nothing of my brother's power, nothing on how to guard against him or stop him. He will tear us apart to get to the prince, and then he will be done for."

Legolas gets to his feet and mutters something about the dramatics of men, but although he sets to pacing about the clearing he does not go anywhere. He is twitchy again and ready to leave, but fully aware that we are too weary as a group. We hobble him, and he is frustrated.

"If we return to Minas Tirith he will catch us," Thranduil speaks as though to a child, fully aware that he is doing so. The elven king is starting to fray, his hold on his temper weakening, but at least he has succeeded in bringing Calder back to himself – the ranger lad looks incensed that he is being spoken to in such a way. "He will catch us in the city and have a thousand men on hand to act as his weapons. If he catches us in the Greenwood he will have elven warriors, ghosts in the trees ready to rain death upon us. No matter our battle ground he will have the upper hand, but at least with just us five it will be by our choice. Only three of us can be taken, and you have some power over him."

"I do not know how to use this power," the lad says sullenly, but he can recognise defeat when he sees it.

"Then you have something to think of on the journey," I reach over and clap him on the shoulder with the falsest of cheer. He winces at the blow, Faelwen hides a grin and I am to my feet. "We should leave. As weary as I am the elf is going to pace until his feet are stumps if we remain much longer, and then where will we be?"

Legolas stops, surprised as though he had not even noticed he has been pacing. He thinks for a heartbeat and then shakes his head.

"We should rest," he disagrees. I can see that it pains him greatly. "If we are to face this ghost then we certainly should not do so as weary as we are."

"He cannot be far behind us," Calder tries one last attempt to instil some sense into us, but Faelwen asks him quite honestly:

"What difference might it make whether he is steps, leagues or hundreds of leagues behind?"

And he has no response to that. Callen does not need to be near us, he does not need to be here. Calder's shoulders slump, beaten, and he looks at us all once again as though we are mentally deficient in some way, but he is very much in the minority. Our decision has been made.

Without further word I shrug into my cloak and find somewhere less uncomfortable where I might rest. I watch as Thranduil bullies his son into taking his rest as well, takes first watch and we all trudge silently to our chosen roosts. Legolas comes to the ground next to me, the trees are too thin and spindly to hide even an elf and so he must make do upon the ground. Instead he takes comfort from my presence. I make space for him and he nudges and jostles me as he settles, and even then I can feel the anxiety drifting from him in waves. He folds his arms about his chest and looks as though he has no intention of sleeping at all.

"I brought herbs with me," I warn him and close my eyes. I feel his solid warmth heave and sigh at my shoulder but I do not open my eyes again, I do not give him cause to argue, and after a while I feel him relax; he is silent, he does not fidget again. With my friend so close I feel safe enough to sleep.

~{O}~

I am roused by a blackbird, of all things, trilling and whistling in my ear. It is a lonely sound, just as all blackbirds seem to sound, and I lie for a moment listening to it. I have not been woken by anything other than the fact that I am done with sleep. I would be cold if not for the warmth of a body that rests close by my side and I take heart from the fact that Legolas is still there, whether he has slept or not. He has rested, and I am unwilling to move because I know that it will rouse him if I do, but I have a cramp in my neck and I cannot feel my arm. I shift slightly to alleviate it, immediately I feel the body at my side start and awaken and the deed is done. We are both awake now.

I shift about until I lie on my back and I turn my head to see the elf, bleary eyed and blinking. He rubs his face and stretches, and when he sees me looking he gives an abashed smile.

_It seems I was weary as well, _he admits.

_I might never have guessed it,_ I send back flatly, and his smile widens for a moment but is then gone again. His eyes are searching, taking in the afternoon light and looking for Calder, Faelwen and his father. Awake for only a heartbeat and he is back on watch.

Calder still sleeps and Thranduil rests against the thin bole of a silver barked tree, his eyes open in elven rest. It seems that the watch was passed to Faelwen and we have not been disturbed to contribute. I feel a thrill of annoyance before I recall the contact I have with the elfling as he shifts. Waking me would have woken him. I wonder whether he has done this on purpose as well. Foolish elf.

He reaches behind him and lays one hand against the bole of the tree against which we lie. There is a faint trace of a smile that alights feather light across his face and I look to him with curiosity.

"They talk in their sleep sometimes," he tells me bashfully, as though embarrassed to say it. "They are in their winter slumber but they mumble at times. It is like walking through a cobweb – they do not know winter so their dreams are all of summer."

I am set aback for a moment by the thought of it, for I had never imagined such a thing. My world is not as full of voices as Legolas' is and the thought captures me for a spell. We do not experience things the same, not at all, and my thoughts lead naturally to wonder how it feels to him to be cut off from it. The silencing of his Song… the more I think of it the more I understand what a terrible thing it must be.

I banish these thoughts and put them aside, for no good can come on dwelling on such things. I cannot stop this whilst sitting on my rump listening to birds singing and so I hold my thoughts in my heart, ready until the day I can be of more help. Instead I nudge him in the ribs with my elbow and he tilts his head to one side so that he can see me. I nod toward Faelwen with a question, one that he reads instantly and rolls his eyes in exasperation. It is quiet and calm right now, I will find out what happens here with my own ears whether he wishes to or not.

"My father told you?" he asks with the faintest hint of annoyance. He keeps his tone low, a mere murmur only for my ears.

"Aye, but I am not as daft as I seem."

He nods once, a short and sharp movement but his eyes are deep in thought. He pulls his knees up, rests his hands upon them and flexes and clenches his hands; they show the turbulence of his mind.

"We both agreed… not whilst we walk upon Arda," he tells me simply, but the look he gives me speaks a thousand more words. Not whilst things are so dark, not whilst there is danger or even the slightest possibility that he might need to protect his people. He and Faelwen are archer and captain and nothing more, nothing for now. It is the first time I have seen him look this way; a tenderness and loss hidden deep behind his walls, there for a moment for all to see. I understand. I nod.

I would say something more. I would pursue this even for a few more words from him but suddenly things are different. Suddenly I am different but this time I recognise it, this time I know what happens.

The Rage comes upon me like a storm, but I know this storm. It is sudden and shocking and it takes my breath away, and I have enough of my wits about me to shove Legolas as far from me as I can. He rolls and comes to his knees at the ready, but whatever he sees in me stays his hand, stops him in his tracks so that he remains just a reach away. Too close… far too close.

I rise but I fall to hands and knees. Everything else falls away.

Anger, I have never known an emotion so overwhelming. I feel sick, I feel every logical thought torn away and my emotions – _my_ emotions – are ripped from me as though I am no master of them, as though I am a puppet, because this is all that I am. I know what happens, I have felt this before but I am no more able to fight it than I was the first time.

I see Legolas before me and I _hate_ him, I hate him so much it makes my skin electric and my heart slam against my chest. I can barely restrain myself from launching at him right here and now, right at this very moment, but not this time. Not again. Something is different this time.

A thousand things race before my eyes: a thousand pictures; snatches of words and emotions, ragged like ribbons in the wind. I see them before my eyes.

_Lothlorien: a dishonour borne on my behalf that I never expected. Rohan: an angry word spoken and a bow raised in my defence. Helms deep: an elf who is just becoming a friend and we are playing a game amidst all of the horror. The gates of Mordor: I am filthy and frightened, but there is a presence I have come to trust, right there at my side. A clearing, two clearings… trust and fear. An acorn, freely given. A reliance that I have never felt before, proving me wrong every time… every single time. _

_No._

I hear the words of the puppeteer – I hear his words, calling me weak… weakest of all. I feel the Rage, feel it boiling within me as hot as the forges of Mahal. I feel it all just as I did before. It hurts, it is heat and urgency and it blinds me but I remember as well. I remember, and I will not be taken. _I will not._

The air gasps and wheezes in my chest, but I will not be taken.

I see little of what happens about me. I know that my possession is realised, I know that there is alarm and clamour about me. I know that Thranduil seeks to pull his son away, I know that the elf fights it. I know that Faelwen has returned and I know that Calder rushes toward me but I see it so slowly, as though I am watching it happen in a dream. It happens, but I am a thousand leagues away. I am swallowed by rage, I hear whispers in my mind that I did not hear before.

_Take the elf, take him and stop him._

I hear his voice, the voice that urges these feelings from me. I did not hear it the last time; I was taken before I could hear his voice and this time I refuse. This time I will not. I will not be stolen, my mind is my own and I take a breath that fills every single raging part of me. It fills me with sweet, clean air and I let it go in a bellow of refusal; hot as cinders and as furious as a forge.

I am not weak. I am not so easy to best. I have fought things far worse, I have known darkness far deeper than this and I have come out of it alive and well and whole. I will not be taken by a mannish boy, _I will not_.

I scream. I scream, and it is as though I release the Rage in a single roar of refusal. It tears from me as though I have lost something rooted deep within me, as though I rip and damage something and it hurts – _ai_ does it hurt! But when it is done I am alone again and I am master of myself once more.

I am thrown back out of my head, out of the nightmare, and onto cold moss with wetness seeping through my knees and a blackbird singing. I feel scraped hands where I brace myself on the ground, I feel my own breath ragged and hoarse in my own throat but I am back. I am back.

I look up and my eyes meet those of Legolas straight away. He is caught in the arms of his father who has dragged him from me but he is still close, he has put up a good fight. He clutches at some hurt in his chest and there is the same pinching to his eyes that tells me he has not come away from this unscathed either.

I care nothing for the others, not a thing for where they might be. I see only my friend and he looks at me with haunted eyes that have always been able to see my heart. He sees the change in me, sees past the horror and the fear to recognise Gimli once again.

"You fought him off," he mutters. There is a pause and he grins, and it is like the sunrise. His whole face brightens with it, his eyes go from violent and shadowed to summer warmth and I will freely admit it… that look upon him makes something in my chest give way. If my friend can look upon me in such a way then I can fight forever. "You fought him off," he repeats affectionately, something thick and choking in his voice. "You dear, _stubborn_ dwarf."

TBC

* * *

**This was supposed to go up yesterday. I went to the pub instead. Sorry about that! :)**

**Well, a slightly more hopeful ending than the last few chapters have had, and a few answers as well. Not many, but a few. I'd love to hear your thoughts on what's going on. Callen's not actually after Legolas but rather the Shadow, which is growing - that pesky thing just won't leave them in peace! I also had one or two observant little monkeys spot the Legolas/Faelwen dynamic from a mile away (which suggests I'm doing _something_ right) and I'd be interested in what you think about those two. Bit sad, really.**

**A HUGE thanks for the rally of support you guys, I really needed it and you came through. Big love. Huge. Seriously. I cannot message my guests individually, but just imagine that I'm sat here making a heart shape with my thumbs and forefingers. That is for you. **

**One last thing to mention: I am currently writing chapter 12, and in chapter 12 it is snowing. We are two weeks into a heatwave and I can't remember what 'cool' feels like, let alone 'cold'. I apologise now in advance for any less than convincing depictions of all things wintery. It wasn't summer when I started writing this.**

**Thanks again to everyone, I really hope you enjoyed this chapter and I hope to see you in the reviews. Have a wonderful day**

**MyselfOnly**


	8. Chapter 8

I broke my arm once, falling from an overhang of rock out in the foothills below the Lonely Mountains.

It was meant to be an enjoyable excursion: my mother, my father and I out in the first warm day of summer but of course my father was too busy, and in the end it was just the two of us. Gloin was sorry, she said. He would make up for it next time, but I paid little mind to her excuses for him. I was happy it being just the two of us.

My mother sat in the sun whilst I played by myself, but then I fell and I recall the terrible pain of it; the shame of my tears. I was too old to cry, too old to need the comfort of my mother but she held me and smoothed my hair back from my face and I let her.

My mother was flawless in my eyes: good and kind; handsome in the way of dwarf women. Her eyes were clear and gentle; quick to laugh and alight with mischief. Her hair was red, just as mine is red; all of the colours of autumn with a thousand shades of gold and silver that caught the sun, but it is her voice that I remember. Everything else about my mother I recall in snatched images and faded memory, but her voice I hear clearly even now.

'_There is no shame in being sad, Gimli,' _she told me_. 'There is no shame, because those who care for you will be there when you have need of it'._

I lost her and I grew older, and for a long time I forgot her words. I knew only a grief broken father, duty and anger. But then I left my home and I travelled a long way – such a long way – and in the most unexpected place I found one who proves my mother the wise dwarf-woman she was. I found one who is there when I have need of it.

~{O}~

I crouch by the river and I scrub at my hands and face, letting the ice cold water turn my hands red and numb. It is worth it for the silence; for the break from eyes that watch me with equal measures of wariness, concern… pity.

I am washed and dressed again in breeches and jerkin, my hair drips unbound down my back and my skin feels tight and raw from the ice cold water. I know that I shiver but I feel grimy and soiled, as though a layer of grease lies upon my skin, and no matter how I scrub I cannot come clean; I cannot wash myself free of the ghost that haunts me. I have come so close to being taken again… so close.

I am deep in my own thoughts and swallowed by anxiety, but still I am unsurprised when I look up from my attentions at the riverbank to see that I am not alone. I have not heard him approach but Legolas sits on a flat rock perhaps four strides away, quite content to watch the run of the river and wait for me to be done. The bruising at his neck… I turn my gaze away from it.

I smell the cold and metallic tang of wet mud beneath my feet, I hear the rill of water as it dances past and I know sunlight rises and falls between the wind pushed clouds; bright against my skin and then dark again. I see him there; patient as the oak, sitting guard until I am myself again. Waiting.

"You do not have to watch me," I grumble. "I am perfectly well, go away."

He shakes his head and that is all I am granted. He does not look away from whatever it is that he sees, and so I huff and return my attention to the river. My fingers still trail in the water, but as reddened and cold bitten as they are I do not remove them. I watch them closely; watch the water passing over them, distorting them.

I have strong hands. They are broad and callused, thick fingered and suited for the wielding of axe and hammer, for shaping stone. There is much damage that they could do to flesh.

I wonder at my victory against today's attack and I imagine whether I might have done so well had Callen not already been fought so recently. I wonder if his power weakens with use. I know that I should not become full of my own victory – it does not mean that I will manage such a thing twice.

"Your thoughts," Legolas says to me. "They are loud; banging about in that head of yours like boulders."

"Better that than to have a head full of clouds and twittering birds," I return. It feels so natural, our constant badgering at one another. If Legolas feels at ease enough to say such things then so do I, and I straighten and dust my hands dry against my leg. I retrieve my cloak and walk over, shove at him until he moves aside enough for me to sit next to him upon his stone, and then we both fall silent for a while. I see what he watches; the woods are beautiful this afternoon.

The failing light catches the bark – lichen green and gold. Bare branches are fine enough to seem nothing but a haze of colour and the river falls through rock and pool, tumbling along its way. It is cold, it smells nothing of summer sap and warm leaf but it is still beautiful. Legolas sees the beauty in the wood no matter the season or weather and Mahal save me, it is something that I am learning to appreciate.

"I have gone a long time without ever seeing a person possessed by another," Legolas tells me. "Then I meet you and it happens twice within a year."

"One of us is certainly bad luck," I agree. I pick up a stone and throw it into the water where it lands with a satisfying sound. I pick up another and the elf watches me. "I am sorry if it is me."

I look to him and he curls his mouth in displeasure, knowing that I do not mean it for a moment. I laugh, a faint shadow of its usual self and his face transforms into a smile. His whole countenance lights when he smiles, when it is real, but there is also something else there.

"The Shadow came forth again, I can see it in you."

He nods, the smile gone again and his eyes back upon the scene before us. He mirrors me and picks up a stone of his own, but rather than throw it he holds it in his hands and rubs the earth from it, turns it about.

"It is very afraid Gimli, and each time it awakens it tries to bury itself all the deeper to escape him. The Shadow's fear awakens my own, and the Song was silenced again," he tells me. His voice is barely anything at all but I hear him. "It did not affect Faelwen or my father, I do not know if it is Callen or the Shadow itself that silences it."

"I do not know if it was my strength that fought Callen off, or whether the boy has been weakened by our exploits this last night. I do not know if I will fight him off again."

I say it because I have no answer to give him, because I want him to know that we are both in as precarious a place as the other. I need for him to know that he is not alone.

"If any can then it will be you Gimli. I have never known anyone so stubborn."

I snort. It is only because he has no mirror to look in!

I know his words for what they are; he has absolute faith in me and I will do anything that I can to keep such belief alive. I cannot fail him; his regard means too much to me. I reach out and lay my hand over his, stopping his exploration of the stone that he holds so tightly. His hands are pale, traced with scars. His fingers are long and fine, and over them my own look huge and clumsy. He looks at me expectantly.

"We will stop this," I promise him. "We have fought the Shadow twice and won, we will do so again."

He looks at me oddly, as though I have missed some point entirely. His lips quirk in a wry twist, his eyes are cloaked but I feel as though my soul is being read. It is a look that sits much better upon his father's face but I understand why he gives it to me. Here I am, giving solace to him when he believes he is here to give it to me. He turns his hand and grips my wrist until it is not one of us comforting the other, we are equals. The message does not need to be spoken, I hear it in any case.

_We will do this together._

He smiles and I reflect it, and then we are apart again. Legolas plays with his stone and I claw my dripping hair back, tying it tightly. We will be leaving again soon, and although we agree that there is little point in fleeing any longer we must still travel in one direction or another. We have decided to continue the road we have been travelling toward the Greenwood.

"Legolas, how does it feel?" I ask him. It is a question he has asked of me recently and I recognise that, but I am curious and I would know what the elf knows. "When he is near and the Song silences, how does it feel?"

He takes a deep breath and glances at the sky but only briefly. His gaze flickers down to the river and he lets his stone drop to the ground. He pulls his arms tight about him, leans forward as though cradling some hurt deep inside. When he speaks it is barely a breath of sound.

"All of the world is gone, I am stilled to nothing," he murmurs, "and never have I felt so alone."

~{O}~

There is no urgency to our journey any longer – we are to be caught one way or another before long – but that does not mean that we take the time to take in the sights. Each of us are weighted down, each of us is weary but at the same time the tension in the air means that none of us seem so.

A well poked stick would likely have the _laegrim _elves airborne – the two of them are deer ready to startle, twitchy and far too aware of everything about them. Thranduil is little different although he hides it far better, but he has hidden it beneath a foul mood and I steer myself far clear of him. Calder does likewise and the two of us ride far behind his ice blue glare and razor sharp tongue, back where we have only Faelwen's twitchiness to bother us. Legolas takes the brunt of his father's anger, because out of us all he is the only one likely to survive it.

Calder seems to have accepted our decision, although I can tell from twenty paces that he is unhappy. The lad is nothing if not adaptable, he is a soldier after all and well used to following orders whether he agrees with them or not. I cannot imagine the lad surviving his years if he were not so able to adapt.

"How do you bear up lad?" I ask him as we ride. It is late afternoon, we have a few more hours of light left to us and although we have agreed to rest during the nights now that we are no longer fleeing, we are all in agreement that we get a few more hours distance beneath us today… a bit more distance from the burning men we have left behind.

I have kept my voice plain, my question as free from feeling as I am able. Calder and I do not know one another very well but it does not stop me from wishing him peace or from caring how he fares. I give him the opportunity to ignore me or to offer only a rudimentary response, but he looks at me and I see him decide against it. Calder is finished with being the outsider in our group, he is held together by the thinnest of threads and I can see the moment that he decides to confide in me. He needs a friend, I do not believe that he has many. I do not have many friends either.

"My past has caught up with me," he tells me. "My brother has come back from the dead with the ability to control minds. I travel with madmen, using an elven prince as bait so that I might battle him with abilities I did not know I had. Other than though, that I am quite well."

I am silent for a moment but then I cannot help but laugh. I had not expected it and it feels good. Calder looks at me with surprise and then his face melts into a rueful smile, pleased. My laughter is strange in our silence and gains me a foul look from Thranduil, who is busy arguing with his son and welcomes no disruption.

"Laddie if you think this is the strangest thing to have happened to me this year you would be wrong," I grumble into my beard, a grin still heavy on my face. "We will come through this just as we always do."

"You seem very confident," the lad tells me flatly.

"Aye, just as I mean to."

~{O}~

We break from the trees to find ourselves travelling along a ridge. The river is becoming a nuisance and it booms and rushes far below us, deeply wrapped in stone walls and wide enough so that we cannot cross it. The ridge is tree lined in places but we travel it easily enough for most of the way, the elves say that there is a crossing a day or so ahead of us and so for now we travel on this difficult ground.

I can feel that the rock beneath us is firm. Legolas asks whether there is any cause for concern and I spend a moment out of Naurwen's saddle, my feet on rock cushioned by only the shallowest layer of soil and I feel Arda beneath. I spend a little longer than I need to, simply because it feels very fine to feel the shifting and deepness of the world at my feet when I have spent most of the afternoon in a saddle.

I extricate myself from the Song of Arda although I do not wish to. I tell them that the way is safe, the rock is solid and will hold for a very long time yet and then we are on our way again, but whereas the rock beneath us is reliable and steady the same cannot be said for the weather.

The night falls early but it is not true night. The dancing sky of the day is replaced by a thick line of blackness upon the horizon that swiftly catches up with us, and before we are ready to stop and make rest the weather arrives.

It is a storm the likes of which I have not seen in a while. I have seen wind and rain and snow recently, but this is rain only seen in early winter when the seasons are struggling for dominance. It hits us with a solid sheet of ice cold water that hammers upon earth and bough, stings exposed skin and seeps into every part of a weary traveller. It is loud and angry; a brittle hissing of water upon the ground and upon the river, a bone deep roar of wind amongst bare wood. It is colder than it was before; any warmth that might have been in the air leeched by the falling deluge and our breath steams.

It is luck that we travel with elves, but even I could have seen this storm coming. We have found a thick stand of pine trees that allows little light to penetrate through the prickly canopy. Fallen needles cushion our footsteps and there is an oddly respectful silence under the weighty boughs. Even the sounds of the wind and the rain seem far away; removed somehow, but we are not far from the ridge, not far from the rain.

It comes through sometimes; it finds its way through the thick and old branches when the wind catches them. The weight of the rain is great and there is always water ready to find its way beneath a shirt collar, into open packs and onto bare shirts where our cloaks and jerkins steam and dry before a hearty fire.

Legolas and Faelwen have left. From the first rumble of thunder their eyes have been like dancing coals; excited and filled by the wildness of the wind and the storm. I would rather them be out racing off their excitement in the wind and the rain than sat with us, unsettling sensible folk with their wolf eyes and rabbit twitches. They run, and let them do so. They so rarely allow their hearts free-rein.

When they return they steam; hot blood mixing with the cold air. I am amused more than anything but Calder watches them with fascinated eyes; he sees their wildness, their difference. If he has not understood it before then he sees it now; they are not like us. They are not like us at all.

Legolas leaves, Faelwen stays and I cook us something warm and filling. The act of cooking settles my heart and calms me, but once the food is eaten my mind turns again to troublesome things. I am glad when Faelwen comes and joins me, for we have had scant time to speak since leaving the city and I find the distraction of her company welcome indeed.

She has removed her wet boots and her hair is loose, wet strands sticking to her face and neck and the rest shifting and breathing with the wind. On a creature such as Faelwen, loose and long hair does not seem pretty or girlish. The very stone itself can see that she is beautiful, but she is beautiful in the way of a storm or fire. It is a dangerous thing. Her skin seems bright beneath the silken web of rain dark tresses, her eyes pale and searching.

She chews with her mouth open.

"You did not think to bring any back for us?" I ask flatly. She grins, digs in her jerkin pocket and deposits a small number of hazelnuts into my hand. Her hands are cold against my own, and she presses one finger to her lips. She is a fearsome warrior, but it seems she is not above secreting food about her person.

I take the offerings gladly and try to crack them open without making any sound, but I begin to feel like a foolish child and so I stop trying to hide my actions. She rolls her eyes as if to say I am no fun at all and turns her attention to the swaying treetops, her nose flaring as she catches some scent or other. I do not know, I cannot even see the trees.

"You must speak with Legolas," she tells me quite certainly, her voice low. "I do not think he will hear it from me, but he must be ready to fight us if we are taken over again."

"You are right," I tell her. "He will not hear it."

She scowls lightly, a small thing that speaks very loudly of her annoyance. I recognise that annoyance well – it can only be brought about by one elfling – but it makes the truth no different. Legolas will not be told what to do, and Legolas will not hurt his friends or his family if there are any other options. Not even to safeguard his own welfare.

"I am not sure that I can fight it the way that you did Gimli," she sighs. "I heard what Callen said, I heard what he said of us all but he was wrong. You are amongst the strongest of us. I do not know how to fight him, let alone whether I have the will enough for it."

"I cannot answer that for you Faelwen," I admit with a shake of my head. "But I do not believe that you would ever see Legolas harmed."

Her scowl deepens but she does not reply. Instead she stretches and twists, relieving the kinks and aches of travel. She moves sinuously, like a cat, and when she crosses her legs before her and leans back upon her elbows she looks comfortable upon this needle strewn and itching ground. She reaches up to rake her hair from her face, an annoyed and sharp movement.

"He is more trouble than he is worth," she mutters. I cannot find it in me to disagree with her.

We end up speaking of inconsequential things, far from darkness or things that weigh upon our hearts. She asks me questions on things that I have seen, places that I have been and what I have done in my years. She keeps me almost constantly upon the hoof, unsure as to where her curiosity might lead me next. Old memories are dredged up, remembrances that I had not thought on for years, things I had thought forgotten. She is skilful, is Faelwen. I thought myself a master at distraction… I have much to learn.

When she speaks, she speaks with her hands. She is animated in her tale-telling and has me laughing more than once, deeply woven into her tales. When she is not carving the air with graceful hands, animating her stories and drawing me in, she is using hazelnut shells to build a design upon the forest floor. I cannot help but watch. I can understand the look of loss that I saw in Legolas all the better with every day that I know her. They have both given up much.

She is telling me of a spot by the old summer dwellings where they used to pick strawberries, back before the move northward. I am thrown back into a very dark place by her tale – Legolas has told me of it, in darkness and in dire circumstances. Faelwen paints a picture of sun scorched sandy soil and leaves that are the dark, tough green of late summer. I can smell the dust in the air, the scent of heat bruised leaf and deep, dappled hollows. I can almost taste the wild sweetness of strawberries, and when she trails off it takes me a moment to realise she has stopped speaking. I look up and all thoughts of summer and sweetness are doused by cold rain and _here_.

She sits upright, her eyes unfocussed and everything about her listens. She tilts her head, turns her face to the wind and she is up and gone before I have any idea what has happened. She has retrieved her weapons but left her boots behind.

I have the briefest chance to feel a thrill of annoyance that elves are so mysterious before I catch the eye of Thranduil. He is to his feet just as I am, just as Calder stumbles upright from his slumber.

Thranduil has that same look about him; the same expression where he looks but is not seeing. He is listening, and as I open my mouth to ask him what occurs he holds one hand up to silence me. I am stung to be hushed like a child, but I clap my mouth shut anyway and watch him, for he is the only thing I have to tell me what goes on in the wood.

We do not have to wait for long. Legolas and Faelwen return before my temper gets the better of me but all of that is wiped away by the urgency in them. The elfling looks like a half drowned pigeon and Faelwen looks little better, but the look in their eyes is serious.

"Travellers," Legolas tells us. "Not half a mile from here, they are in trouble."

They both look to their king. I could imagine that in any other circumstances it would be Legolas making decisions, but these are not ordinary circumstances. We no longer have the luxury of being able to run to the aid of those in difficulty, not when they could so swiftly become a danger to us.

Thranduil thinks quickly, his gaze turning inward for a short while as he fights with his own conscience and his concern for his child. The decision is made in good time and his eyes snap upward.

"Faelwen, Gimli, we will go. Calder and Legolas, you will remain here."

I fetch my axe as I hear the elf hiss in disbelief and annoyance. This is between the two of them, but I catch the look of dismay upon the ranger lad as I return.

"I would not be kept by the fireside like a child, my king," Legolas argues through gritted teeth.

"Calder, watch him," Thranduil ignores him entirely. "If he gives you trouble, you have my permission to stab him in the leg."

And with the cry of indignation that these words prompt, we are already going.

The journey through the storm beleaguered wood is nothing that I have not experienced before. Indeed, it seems that every urgent race I have ever had through the trees has been in wind driven rain, and so I manage well enough. I cannot keep up with the elves, but neither do I give them cause to check their pace and our flight is swift.

Out of the trees the going is difficult. There is a chasm on my left, woods to my right and the path I run upon is knotted with boulders and stone. It is thick with moss and slippery as ice, scrubby heather and rabbit holes turn the way into a pitted and gnarled maze but I find that my feet know the way all by themselves.

The rain batters at me, the wind is like ice and my skin burns with it. All the while I can hear the river far below us and the bellowing of the storm as it funnels through the ravine. It rumbles beneath my feet and moans right through to my bones – a harrowing sound – but we do not have to run for long. Faelwen pulls us up before I lose my wind and we stop, all three of us, at the top of an incline where below us I can see our quarry.

I cannot make out much in the darkness but what I can see fills my gut with ice. There is a stricken horse, a large wagon half off the ledge and people struggling to keep the beast from falling to its demise. I cannot see how many are down there but it is not many at all, and when the wind blows in my face I can hear the distant echo of frightened squealing, of people shouting in panic. I can hear a child crying.

We do not move. None of us make any movement to help, and I can feel every muscle in me tense and quivering.

"They will be in that ravine and swept beyond our reach whilst we stand here watching," comes a voice. I start just as Thranduil hisses in anger.

"Legolas I said that you were to stay behind," he snaps. He glares at Calder who is not much further behind, and although the lad looks truly miserable it does not save him from the anger of the woodland king. I interject, we have no time for Thranduil to take his temper out on young ranger lads.

"His leg seems fine," I point out. Calder looks scandalised.

"You truly expected me to wilfully stab the prince?" he asks wildly, just as Legolas says:

"How long did you imagine it might take me to disarm him?"

I see that the young man favours his hand, bruised but artfully un-broken, but all attention returns back to the scene before us. There will be time later to argue about this, there is none for it now.

"When have we ever hesitated in helping another?" Legolas demands of me, and then shoots the same question at Faelwen. The latter avoids his gaze but I have no trouble meeting it at all.

"Of course," I snort. "The last time we helped another it went very well indeed! There is a child down there – when has it gone well for us when a child has been involved?"

"The last child we met only _after_ she had died, and we got Finfulfin his sister back," he points out: "… eventually."

I throw my hands up but have nothing to say. I am given respite by the elven king who takes this moment to interject.

"We cannot stand by and watch them fall, I will not be made a coward of and neither will I ask it of any of you."

He has made his decision, and now that it is done he turns to his son. A lot is said between them, just in that glance. He hands leadership over, not because he is incapable but because it is Legolas' right. No matter what happens right now Thranduil has nothing but trust in his son but there is also a warning there. Should anything go ill because the elfling is here and not where he was ordered to stay, then the consequences will be carried by us all. That is his burden to carry, and Legolas nods in acceptance of it.

We fly down the hill as one; some of us slipping and sliding over the mud and wet grass, others sure footed and fleet.

As we get closer I can make out what I could not from further up the hill; there are just four of them: a man, a woman, a youth and a child. The woman holds the child – perhaps five years of age – away from where the men battle with the horse. She is white faced and terrified, and we run past her.

The larger man is trying to pull the cart back from the edge of the ravine as the younger holds the head of the horse, pulling at bridle and rein to try and pull the lot clear of the edge. The horse is squealing and straining, white eyed and foam flecked. It is a huge beast, with feathered feet and withers higher than my head. Even so, the cart is large and over-burdened and almost entirely tipped. It is too heavy to pull back and they are at a stalemate; eventually the horse will tire enough that the weight will pull the lot over.

The most sensible thing would be to cut the traces and let the cart fall, but I can see that both men are armed. I imagine that the cart holds something of import for them to have not done so already, and so we go straight to helping them and we do not cut the cart loose.

The large man sees us approach and there is alarm in his features, just as I would be alarmed if a group such as ours came running out of the night. I come to his side and join him as he holds on to the cart, he looks closely at me but there is no time for introductions or for explaining matters. He sees that we are here to help and his attentions go right back to what he does. Calder joins us both and now there are three, but the cursed thing does not budge.

"It is stuck fast!" Legolas yells. Between the booming of the river below, the roar of the wind and the pummelling of the rain I can barely hear him. He crawls out from where he has clambered beneath the cart – foolish, foolish elf – and he is covered in mud, but his eyes are bright and assessing. Faelwen has gone to the horse, soothing and calming the animal as much as she is able so that the lad is not battling the beast and its fear. It stands still now, blowing and straining against the weight that pulls it back.

"You must cut the traces!" Thranduil shouts to the man and goes to draw his sword, but there is a cry of horror from the woman and the man bellows his refusal. "It is not worth your life if it falls!"

But then I hear it: a thin cry. It comes from over the edge, from the far side of the cart. A child – there is another child!

I look over to Legolas. The horror on his face must be the same as that on my own, but it is banished in a moment to be replaced by ice cold resolve. I can read his intentions just as easily as I can read the words on a page.

I say to him: _'You must go.' _

Just as he says:_ 'Do not let me fall._'

The smile that I give him has no humour in it at all. It is a promise; a grim reminder of who I am. I am strong, I can keep this cart safe for now. I have never let him fall before.

"_Legolas!"_ Thranduil prompts urgently, reading our exchange just as easily as we do and knowing his son's intentions without having to be told. His father's shout spurs him into action, and he is up and onto the cart before anything else can be done. He clambers over its huge load, out of our sight and onto the far side that hangs so precariously over the water.

His weight adds nothing to our burden, nothing at all. Thranduil joins us and now there are four, but we are not going to be able to hold it. The rain has made the edge of the ravine too slippery, the soil has turned to thin mud and the axel snaps where it rests against the edge. The cart lurches, I can hear voices cry out in fear and alarm but I grit my teeth and I strain with every ounce of strength available to me. I hear the scream of a child, hidden from me by the bulk of the tipped load: on the other side, where there is only the air and the river. I hear that scream and I feel my insides churn and lurch, afraid. What happens? What happens on the other side?

There is no way now of bringing the cart back, I can feel it starting to slide toward the river. It tilts and turns, the weighty bulk of the far end begins to tip toward the water. My grip is failing me; the wood is slippery and hard to hold as we lose this battle. I hear Faelwen shouting at the horse now, encouraging the beast to keep up the fight. I hear the man roaring his exhaustion and defiance, refusing to let his weakness win. I hear Thranduil shout something to his son but it is in their own tongue and the storm blurs his words so that I cannot make them out. I understand what he says though, I understand because it is the same thing that I am thinking. Where is he?

I feel something then beneath me. I feel the rock begin to splinter and crumble right where the cart is held up, right where the broken axel rests. It is going to crumble, and when it does we will all be dragged down with it.

"Thranduil, the stone is failing!" I cry out. He looks to me, and just as always there is nothing in his face other than sternness and frightening resolve, but for a moment there is a flicker there… for a moment I see fear. He shouts again to his son but it is cut short.

The horse shrieks as the cart tips again, lurching and dragging us all a foot, two feet. The rear two wheels are hanging freely in the air now and the fight is lost. I feel the stone begin to crumble beneath us just as I hear a cry from Faelwen.

She has left the side of the horse and looks over the edge of the ravine. Just for a moment she is there, and then she races back to us with her knives already in her hands.

"Let it go!" she cries, just as she shoves the young lad away from the horse and brings her blades down upon the traces. She severs one, she strikes again. The older man roars a refusal and pulls at the cart even harder but Calder, Thranduil and I trust in Faelwen. She would not have us letting go if it were not safe to do so, and so we each grab at the man and drag him away from the cart. He fights us every second of the way – it takes all three of us to restrain him – and when Faelwen finally cuts free the traces and the cart tips over the edge, the sound he makes is that of an animal. It is wounded, maddened by grief and it makes my heart clench and stutter.

The cart vanishes over the edge silently – only a slight groan of wood to mark its passing – and the horse pulls forward with sudden motion that has the lad sprawling in the mud. It slips and slides, mighty hooves churning the mud and finding purchase enough for its escape. It waves its head high, its eyes wild and flanks blowing, but once it is away from the edge it stops and stands, quivering. Safe.

I can hear the woman weeping, the man is crumpled in the mud but I have no mind for them. I race over to where Faelwen is already clambering over the edge of the ravine. I slip once, fall, and am back to my feet again in a moment. I fall to my stomach and lie over the edge to see Legolas far, far below us. He clings to the narrowest ledge with a huddled figure that can only be a child clinging to his back as though sewn into his clothing. I can see little of them – I cannot tell whether the child is a boy or girl, how old it is, whether they are both unharmed – but I can see that Legolas is grinning up at us. I feel anger rush into my gut. He has terrified me yet again, and he is grinning?

"Do not just hang there, you fool!" I shout to him. "Climb!"

And so he climbs.

Water rushes past me to cascade like a waterfall over the edge. The river is thankfully invisible to me but I can hear it, a vast and frightening sound that beats against the walls of the ravine hard enough so that I can feel the vibrations of it beneath my chest. The rain hammers against my back and my arms, my legs – all of my muscles feel limp and exhausted, but I know none of it. I do not look to see where Thranduil or Calder might be – I know they are probably watching this just as I am – but I cannot look away. I watch Faelwen climbing down just as Legolas climbs up; they are both nimble and sure footed, graceful even in these conditions but the rock is slick and Legolas carries two.

My heart is in my throat through the whole thing. The elf creeps up the rock face in places, in others he flies up. At one point his hand slips and with a clattering of disturbed stone he falls a short way before he catches himself again. I am going to expire entirely, I am going to die of fright. I watch my friend and his precious cargo as he makes his way to safety, and it is not until he reaches up just as Faelwen reaches down and their hands lock upon one another that I breathe again. Thranduil has now climbed down a way as well and Faelwen reaches up to him, and now they all help one another back up to safety.

The woodland king sits in the pooling mud once Faelwen is back upon more solid ground. Faelwen collapses similarly, and when Legolas hauls himself over the edge he is divested of his charge almost straight away. The man pulls the child from him – now openly wailing – and then he is with his family. They huddle together, away from us, embraced as one being around the crying child.

Legolas climbs the last few inches, staggers away from the edge and I shove him. He falls into the mud, turns upon his back and lets the rain fall upon his upturned face. His breath is laboured, he is absolutely filthy but he laughs and I come to the ground beside him.

"I could not have done that with a stabbed leg," he points out.

I look at him with disbelief. I can feel rancour burning from my every pore, I have no idea why I tolerate this horrible elf. He has terrified me half to death – yet again – and now makes light of the whole thing, but I cannot criticise his recklessness tonight. No one else would have climbed onto that cart so readily. He does not think for a second on the consequences of throwing himself into danger, and whether it is bravery or stupidity he has saved a child tonight. I swat him upon the chest so that he chokes a complaint.

"Crazy elf," I mutter, my voice faint as the fear leaves me. He turns his head to look at me, I scowl down at him, and it only makes his grin all the wider.

~{O}~

When we return to the shelter of our camp it is a far slower affair than our first race in the rain. The family drag at our heels, lost and unsure of what to do with themselves now. They have lost everything over the ravine, but they are all safe and this is the more important thing. They cling to one another tightly; the man carries the youngest child – the one that Legolas has saved – and his wife is beneath his other arm. The oldest boy carries the other child and they are tight as ticks, bumping into one another as they walk at our centre. The horse thuds each footfall into the sodden ground behind them, a poor and bedraggled thing.

Thranduil leads our procession. He has checked over Legolas carefully, his face tight and pale with eyes that burn with barely restrained anger. I do not know whether he is angry at the elf or at what has happened, or perhaps at the situation we are now in. I do not know, he does not say anything. He leads us now with Calder at his side, and I remain to the rear with Legolas and Faelwen.

The two elves are muttering and hissing to one another, shoving and smiling. It is quite inappropriate. They try to hide it, but this excitement has their blood afire and the storm is not helping. I have noticed before that the high winds agitate my friends in the way that beasts are agitated; they are twitchy and ready to race the winds at the first opportunity, held in check only by their age and by the situation we are in. I fix them a firm look, they cease their joking and Faelwen leaves us to take her position in the trees ahead of us. The look I am given by Legolas is the same as I would imagine a kicked dog might give me, but it swiftly fades to show that his twitchiness is more than just the wind.

He looks about him as though expecting something to go badly for us at any moment. He has the look he has when he is trapped; he is too alert and close to heading up to the trees himself. I notice that he is keeping as far back from the family as he can remain and I understand it completely.

What are we to do with them?

Curse this turn of events, for they could not come at a worse time than this! Should Callen take it upon himself to attack again, what of them? They are in the middle of something they cannot protect themselves against. They are as much a risk to us as we are to them.

When we are back beneath the trees we find our fire still burning and Calder leads the family toward it. He stokes the flames higher and they huddle around it fearfully, the children silent and frightened. Their parents minister to them as best they can, and eventually the middle child begins to cry. It is a soft sound, he is trying to muffle his own tears and his mother cradles him closely.

Calder sees to their horse, rubbing it down and checking for injury. The poor animal still shivers but under his careful hands I see that it relaxes, fraction by fraction until one hind leg is tipped to the ground at rest and its eyes droop. Of our own horses Neleth has returned, drawn out of curiosity, and our own gentle giant investigates the new addition quite thoroughly before beginning to groom her.

The elves and I remain back. We are strangers to these folk. Calder at least is something that is familiar to them and I do not think that they are ready to be dealing with elves and a dwarf right now. Even so, I would be happier by the fire. I am starting to shiver and am sure I look a right state if the elves are anything to go by.

"This is poor timing," Thranduil mutters to himself. He leans a shoulder against a tree, a strangely relaxed posture considering what happens here. It is not the first time that his casual observation of events has spurred a flare of annoyance in me but I quash it. His arms fold just as Legolas crouches and trails his fingers in the pine needles littering the floor. He watches the family but I know he is not watching them closely. He sees them, aye, but his mind is elsewhere.

"We have to leave," he says. "We endanger them whilst we are here."

I nod, I agree, but I can hear the wind thundering in the trees above us and I can smell nothing but mud and rain. I am tired. Even the elves are tiring now.

"Have they enough to make it?" Faelwen asks. She sits upon a broken log, legs dangling. She still has no boots on and her bow is held loosely by her fingertips. She swings it lightly, her eyes fixed on the two smallest children. They are very young. "I know men are not so strong and their children are even more prone to the elements. Winter is almost completely upon us, what are they doing travelling at all?"

"They have a horse," Legolas points out. "We will give provisions to them, they can take our shelter and our fire. I can spare my cloak and Gimli has a blanket they can have. There is little more we can do for them."

I would argue with him – not over my blanket for I can spare that, but over him handing over his cloak. I stay my tongue though. Legolas has worn far less clothing in far colder weather and not been all that concerned over it. I worry for him too much. Their need is greater and Legolas is hardier than I ever seem to give him credit for.

Calder comes over to us now. He drags his feet – he is tired as well – but he throws to me my dry cloak and I catch it gratefully. My jerkin and the rest of my clothes are still elsewhere, but once I have my cloak wrapped about me I feel some measure of warmth leeching back into my old bones even if it does smell strongly of wood smoke.

"They will be quite fine," he tells us, but there is a hint of annoyance in his tone that I find surprising. "They are shocked and the children are miserable, but they will be fine. When are we to leave?"

I catch a glance of Legolas smiling to himself, there and then gone. He is pulling his tangled braids free and leaves his hair unfettered, a sodden fall that even now catches the distant firelight and I know that he is growing to like the lad. He no longer has that coldness in his glance when he looks upon him, is no longer so constrained in his company. I am glad – I find that I like him too.

"There is little point in waiting," I say. I wring out the edge of my shirt. Sense says to leave my dry clothes wrapped in oilskin in my pack for I am only going to get wet again, but sometimes I would ignore sense. I wish nothing more than to change into something drier and warmer. "We have gone a whole day without Callen showing himself, a whole day after I imagine him quite annoyed with us. We are more than overdue a visit. And in any case – why were they out in this? Even men can tell when it is raining, and even men know to stay out of it. Fools such as we are travel when the seasons are so turbulent, I cannot imagine anything important enough to have them on the road with the passes so closed."

"It is because the passes are closed," Calder tells us. "They have said little, but there is urgent need that they are with family before the winter sets in. They would have been there already had the passes not closed so early. Even so, the man says that they had not intended to travel in this storm. They would have sought shelter at the same time as we did, but they did not. They are confused as to why, the man has spoken little but I can see that he blames himself. He does not understand why he kept on."

Calder's face darkens and no one needs to speak of it. We know why. Our conversation ceases though as the man rises from the fire, kisses his wife upon the crown of her head and then walks toward us.

He is a large man. I imagine that once he was quite imposing but now he is starting to age; his muscles softening, his back beginning to weaken. Even so, as nothing but a silhouette against the fire and with the welfare of his family forefront in his mind, he is a hulking figure. I am starting to imagine that in better weather he may have hauled that cart back from the precipice by himself after all.

Legolas rises to his feet just as Thranduil pushes away from the tree, his arms by his side and ready. Legolas and Faelwen bracket him, guards as they ever are, but I am unsure as to what they believe they are guarding against. The five of us are four more than is needed against an exhausted man and his frightened family, no matter how large he may be.

As he nears I see the man's eyes flicker to the armed _laegrim_ elves and I see his resolve waver for a heartbeat. Their eyes are still full of the storm and I forget at times how they appear to people not used to them. I give Legolas a stern look and a scowl, and with an almost abashed look he shifts his bow behind his leg. I am simply glad he has not drawn his knives.

"Will you not come to your fire?" the man asks. His voice is surprisingly soft. "You have saved my family, saved my child. I will not now have you stood out in the cold whilst we steal the very warmth from you."

"We are leaving," Thranduil says, and I could cringe. He does not soften his tone at all!

"It cannot be helped," I interject, stepping forward. "We are a danger to you whilst we are here. It would be a waste if harm were to come to your family now after our efforts tonight."

The man looks at me, looks at us all. He sees the truth in our pinched and weary faces, in the coldness of the elves and the annoyance of the human lad who still seems to think that this whole troublesome ordeal sits upon his own shoulders in some way. He sees it and accepts it, and he nods once. He looks up and meets eyes with Legolas, which impresses me if nothing else.

"Thank you," he says. There is so much there in that simple thanks that I can see Legolas shift and grimace, uncomfortable. Had he known it was coming I am sure that the elf would have remained in the trees, but of course he is a prince and has been raised to at least pretend that he has manners. The bow that he gives is graceful and humble. He tilts his head and touches his heart but that is all, and that is enough. The man is too choked by his own emotion to make much more of it, and we return back to the fireside with him.

We meet them all. The woman is younger than I had imagined, careworn and cold and afraid, but she is delicate featured and has kind eyes. She looks to us with gratitude and emotions so heavy I know not what to do with them. The elf – coward that he is – has taken the task of collecting our horses together and so escapes all of this, but when he returns for his pack I grab his wrist and hold him in place. He hisses his annoyance at me but I know that he will not cause a scene. He is introduced to the children, and I am rewarded with the enjoyment of his discomfort as he claws together his manners and makes polite discourse.

All about us is movement whilst we are with the family. The horses are made ready, our packs are pulled together and our things re-distributed as provisions and warm clothing are handed out. All the lighter for it we are packed away again, we are readied and we are leaving.

Thranduil stands speaking with the man for a short while before we go, Calder with him, but Legolas is next to me and glowering at the side of my head. I ignore him and strain to hear what is said but I know that it is nothing of import. They have been a distraction, I know it well enough, and we must be gone before the distractor arrives. We have little time left to us.

In another time we would have gone with them. Had we been simply travelling we would have gone with them and made sure of their safety, made sure they reached their destination but things are not so simple any longer. I know that the woodland king explains this, I know because I am starting to know him. He speaks briefly with the man who nods and accepts matters. He is troubled, but these are troubles we cannot help him with. Were we to stay we would only add to them, and when the king returns to us the woman finds her husband and ducks under his arm, and the two of them raise one arm in farewell to us.

They are thankful, I am merely pleased that we have been able to help them, but at the same time I would have done anything not to have met them tonight. Had they travelled any other road they might never have met us, they would have continued their journey without any trouble at all and they would have been all the better for it. Had they travelled another road we would not be heading out into a winter storm in the middle of the night, fully aware of the fact that our pursuer is not far behind us. We all might have known a different road but for the other, but then I am starting to understand that this is simply the way of things. This is simply the path I walk.

We leave. We walk the horses out into the startling shock of rain upon our skin, of wind that buffets us instantly and sends ice and water deep into our very bones. It is so dark, so cold and I am very tired but I have been colder and I have been far more tired than this. I walk Naurwen who is, for once, docile and compliant. Her steady bulk comforts me, Neleth follows behind us and so there is room for the elf and I to walk together upon this narrow ridge. The trees toss and buck to our right, the river booms to our left but all I know is the comfort of my friend at my side.

I have chance to think for a while of the anger I felt toward him as we travelled to Minas Tirith – what seems to me like a lifetime ago. I think on it deeply, for I have had much to think of on anger lately. I think on it with each footfall, with every step I take my mind retreats further to where my thoughts are deepest, where the wind and rain does not touch me, where my weariness is nothing more than a hint on the edge of my awareness.

Since coming to the White City much has come to distract us from our quarrelling. We have not said a harsh word to the other and meant it since he took a crossbow bolt to the chest. It was the start of things, and there has been little time for thought since, but now I have time in my mind to think. I have time to consider where my anger may have stemmed from.

I hear Callen's voice telling me that I am conflicted and aggrieved, but not truly angry. I did not understand his words at the time, but I think I understand them better now. Much has come to make sense.

"If I apologise," I speak, lowly enough for my words to reach only the elf I mean them to. "Will you hear it?"

Legolas looks at me, his eyes piercing and assessing. He knows what I mean, he knows what I am speaking of just as he always does. He looks away.

"Have you learned your heart?" he asks me. It is a simple question but the look upon his face tells me more. He asks me what it was that came between us to begin with, he asks why I was so angry with him. There is fear in him. He does not wish to know the answer, but then he also needs to know as well. I would do anything to settle his mind, to reassure him that I am as steadfast in my care for him as he is for me, but he is a far better friend than I am.

"I believe so," I tell him. "And perhaps I do blame you."

It is only the start. I have only begun to explain matters to him. It is an opening statement and nothing more, but this is all that I am able to say to him. There is a look of hurt upon his face that I have never seen there before. I would claw my own heart out to stop him from looking that way, but I am not done… I have not finished speaking! _I am not finished!_

Legolas stumbles and falters, he takes in a hiss of air and wavers.

I stop, stock still in my own boot prints. I am perhaps a pace ahead of him and turn back, I see his face and by Eru I would give every breath… every beat of my heart not to see such a look upon him. Legolas looks wide open, the walls that he hides behind are gone.

He clutches at his heart, his eyes unfocussed upon the ground. He raises one hand blindly, reaching without looking and I am right there for him. He clutches at my shoulder and I would cry out for the grip he has upon me but I am too frightened, too afraid of what happens. Instead I call out for Thranduil and then I am back with the elf.

I drop Naurwen's reins as Legolas sinks to one knee. As he grips my shoulder, so too do I grip the other side of his and I look at him… I _look_.

"It is gone, Gimli," he tells me. He speaks and his voice is a whisper, but it is broken. I have not heard him sound like this before. Whenever this has happened before it has been in the midst of action and unpleasantness, never have I heard him speak whilst so afflicted: now I see the truth of it upon him. I see the blind panic and grief in the wideness of his eyes, I see the fear and loss in the clench of his jaw, in the tightness of every muscle and sinew in him. He is frightened, and so I am frightened.

Legolas grips at my shoulder and I weather the pain of it.

"The Shadow: it is afraid, it is mad with it! The Song is gone," his voice breaks. "He is _here_."

TBC

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**Firstly, this is a little odd for me. We all have our weird little rituals and superstitions, but you may have noticed that I only ever update on a Friday. Today being Tuesday, this feels a bit strange but I was very aware that it's been a while since I last posted. I offer you this gigantic chapter as an apology.**

**Secondly, I am apologising now - in advance - for the cliffhanger at the end of the next chapter. Depending on the response to this one I will try to get it out a bit sooner so that I can then go into hiding.**

**Thirdly, yesterday was a bit of a milestone. I turned a year older, but it was also one whole year since I posted the epilogue to The Path we Walk. I cannot believe it's been that long, and it actually made me a bit thoughtful (as birthdays so often do) so I have some special thanks to give out.**

**To Lindir's Ghost, for her friendship and support right from the very start. Paths probably wouldn't be the story it is if it weren't for you, sweetheart, and this fic you're reading right now probably would never have been written. To Vanimalion, for being so delightfully strange and keeping me on the straight and narrow... especially with the care of my e-horses. Neleth, Naurwen and the others thank you. To Emry Yew, she of the massive brain, who has me thinking about things I never would have thought about all by myself. I hope things get better for you soon. Additional thanks go to Archiril, for sending me a message that truly humbled me, to TiaKisu who has pulled me out of the writing doldrums more than once, and to me4evaful, for the insight and backing me up on the decision to 'out' Faelwen and Legolas (although I had to promise not to do something) which was something I fought with. To everyone else, your names are many and your presence is cherished. If I could personally thank you all on here without the A/N being as long as the chapter I would; I try to reply to you all, but my guests remain mysteries to me. I love you all.**

**No, I'm not dying. It just felt it needed to be said.**

**Anyway, all of that aside *clears throat, wipes eye* I hope you enjoyed this one. Quite a bit of action, lots of friendship, mysteries and a horrid cliffie for you. This was actually meant to be a very short chapter, but the next one doesn't really let up enough to break naturally and the flow was a bit weird otherwise, so I'd absolutely love to hear your thoughts. The response to my last chapter was overwhelming, I'd love to hear from you all again on this one.**

**I'm going to shut up now, but I hope you all have a wonderful day**

**MyselfOnly.**


	9. Chapter 9

I grip at Legolas and I speak to him, although I know that what I say is rushed and frightened nonsense. I will not leave him with those last words, whatever is about to happen I will not let what I have said ring in his ears. I follow him down until he is braced, knees in the mud and his fist clenched at my shoulder. He is bent over, I cannot see his face, but I speak to him: I tell him that I am not finished, I tell him that what I said is not all that I meant. I do not know if he can hear me.

I look up, where is Thranduil?

I search him out and I see him, closer than he was but he has stopped – he is torn in two. No matter how he wishes to be there for his son, he will not come close enough to be a danger to him. I cannot imagine that he has ever been so helpless in any of his days: it is something he does not know or understand and this moment is all the more terrible for it.

"Calder!" I call out, and the lad pushes past Thranduil until he is crouched at our side. He rests one hand upon Legolas' back and the other upon his shoulder, and I feel the elf tense before taking in a jagged breath of air. It is a desperate and ragged sound, but whatever the lad has done it has alleviated things for now. Whatever power he has over his brother has given the elf a chance to breathe, and when he looks up again I can see his eyes through a curtain of sodden hair. They are raw and desperately lost, but it is Legolas that I see again. It is the only reprieve that we have.

It is only moments – mere moments – and then I hear something over the rain and the wind. I hear a cry and it is angry and just as grief stricken as Legolas is, just as hurt and confused. I look up again – it is behind me – and I stumble to my feet dragging the elf with me every step of the way.

There is a figure there in the rain: it is Callen, and he has found us.

I squint through the blinding rain. I try to see him as more than a silhouette, more than solid darkness and gradually my eyes resolve his shadow into something I can recognise. I see him and I gasp, and it has the elf beneath my gripped fist looking up in response. I feel it when he recognises the figure as well, for we have met him before – curse it all, we have met him before!

The lad from the tavern, our first night in Minas Tirith. The fight in the bar, the lad that Legolas rescued from the tussle that I now realise he caused all by himself. It is him!

"_Calder!"_ he calls out, and I have never heard such a sound before. Never have I heard such anger and betrayal. It is the voice of madness itself and I find myself stepping so that I stand before the ranger lad – my friend. I would protect him from this. In any way that I can, I would protect him from it.

Calder lays one hand on my shoulder; it is a thanks and a refusal in one. He steps from out of my protection and comes before us instead, taking the role upon his own shoulders. He would defend those older and more experienced, he would stand – no more than a grown youth – before those who should be protecting him.

"Callen you cannot do this!" he calls out over the tumult, his voice rising over the wind and the rain.

"_Betrayer!"_ the shadowed figure shouts. "You would side with these – elves and a dwarf – over your own family!"

The irony escapes him, clearly. Callen carries the blood of his kin, whether his were the hands that struck them down or not. He has been the betrayer, he has been the one to fail his family. I hear it in his voice as clearly as I feel the shock of rain upon my skin: the lad is insane… completely and utterly insane.

"Give him to me," Callen calls, his tone softening. He is cajoling, coaxing. "Give him to me and I will forget what you have done. Once I am healed, when I am free of this hunger we can be brothers again. I will forgive all you have done and it can be just you and I, for we have lost much time."

"Whatever time we had to us was lost fifteen years ago, brother," Calder says sadly, almost too quietly to hear over the thundering wind. "I lost my family that night… _all_ of my family."

There is silence for a moment, just a moment but it stretches out into an eternity. I feel Legolas straighten under my hand and I let go of him, knowing that he would meet any battle upon his own two feet. I chance a glance and I try to imagine what it feels like to him; to have the Song torn from his fëa, to be left so bereft. By the look on his face I am glad that I cannot imagine it. I am frightened for him, but then I see a glimmer of the fire I know so well there, deep in his eyes. He will endure. He will always endure.

Callen does not respond, but I feel something change in the air. I feel it because Callen feels it, I feel it because the control he exerts over us cannot help but touch us whether he intends it or not. I felt it in Minas Tirith – those first days upon our arrival, before I was ever truly taken over. I felt a glimmer of it then just as I feel it now. I feel his anger, I feel his rage and hunger. I feel it and it is like ice; a splinter of it sitting jagged in my heart.

He says no more, but instead he gestures to one side. It is a negligent movement and he does not take his eyes from us for one moment, but I hear Faelwen gasp before I see anything myself. When they come out of the trees it is my own emotions that I feel: horror, grief, refusal. No… he cannot do this.

A man, a woman holding a small child, a young boy barely away from the apron strings, a youth.

They walk from the trees and sombrely they line up, neatly and calmly, against the edge of the ridge. There is no expression upon their faces; no fear or questioning as to what happens to them. They merely stand there, battered by the relentless rain, the tips of their shoes barely upon stone. Before them there is nothing but the night, open wide and huge all the way to the river roaring far below. We have rescued our own hostages.

"Prince Legolas," Callen muses. He steps closer, and I would step backward at the same time but I am frozen. He stops close enough so that I can see his face: boyish and pleasant and seeing none of us apart from Legolas. He looks upon him with such need, it is wrong. "I have heard of you. I have heard tales of your bravery, of your skill… of your mercy. Would you give it to me freely? Would you save these people and free me from this hunger of your own accord?"

This is something I did not account for, and curse the lad right down to his bones. He says that he cannot read the elfling, he says he cannot see his heart for the protection that the Shadow affords him but it makes sense… truly it makes sense. If the boy can see into the hearts of others as easily as he says that he can, then he knows the hearts and minds of good folk without even trying. He has read the elf perfectly without seeing a thing, and the panic that I feel is fresh and new. I am not the only one to know it.

Thranduil moves to come forward but Callen raises one hand and Legolas makes a sound – no more than a soft grunt – but it is enough. He curls in over himself, his hand flickering to his chest. The boy has learned how to awaken the Shadow, even from where he stands. If he has a weakness then I cannot fathom it, if there is a way to end this I do not know it. We have no way of stopping him!

"You would allow them to go free?" Legolas speaks. I hear such strength in his tone, such resolve, despite all that he must be feeling right now. "My friends, my family, these people. You would take what you need and go?"

"Legolas, no," I hear the woodland king murmur. Soft… so soft. I know it is meant to be a command but it does not sound like one. He is ready to draw his sword and let these people fall to their peril and I understand it, I truly do. The elf is worth more to me than these strangers, but then I look again to the children. So small… so important. We do not know that the taking of the Shadow will permanently harm Legolas – not for certain – but I know that the fall from this ridge will certainly kill this family.

I have never felt so torn, never in my whole life. I am terrified for the elf, I feel guilt that I would so easily throw away the lives of others to see him safe and yet I am enraged that any of us has been put in this position. He has no right to do this, no right to take what is not his, no right to put this upon us.

I struggle with the words I would speak, but in the end the decision is taken from me. Another voice rings out and I am surprised by it; Faelwen walks forward, stepping proudly and defiantly out of the darkness and rain. Her face is wild and cold, her lip lifted in a feral snarl and in her hands sit both her knives, ready at her sides.

"You would be wrong to think that this decision is his," she snaps. She speaks with her hands, Faelwen does, and when she gestures it is with her blades. She points one at Legolas who is wide eyed and surprised. "He is not yours to take, and his life is not his own to offer. He belongs to his people and to his king – he swore it so – and if he could not be given to me then I will die and damn any others before I let one such as you take him."

I am stunned. Not just by the pure venom in her tone but by what she has said. It is the first acknowledgement she has made of what they have given up, and in any other circumstances I might have willingly paid my last penny to see such a look upon Legolas' face, but his surprise is gone in a moment to be replaced with anger.

We may as well not be here; they glare at one another furiously now and there is a huge amount between the two _laegrim_ scouts all ready to be had out with, but now is not the time. The storm that rages in private within their locked gaze is shattered and dispersed when Callen speaks again. I am surprised all over again to hear that his tone is understanding – he is coaxing again, reasonable and charming. I cannot keep up with the changes in him, it is exhausting.

"It is your decision, Legolas," he says. He cuts the rest of us out, he speaks only to the elf. "You can save them all. I will kill them and I will feel no remorse, none at all, and then I will go and find your home and I will continue killing because it is easy to me… so very easy. I will get what I want, or I will sate my hunger on those you care for. You can stop it."

I hear Faelwen growl, angry and frustrated. I hear Thranduil finally give in to his urges and draw his sword and I see Calder step forward ready to speak, but Legolas stops us all with a single raised hand. He shrugs me off and takes a step forward, then two. His bow and quiver are already with his horse but he drops his knives into the mud. He walks toward Callen and I cannot help but take a few of my own right behind him, but then the lad takes things into his own hands. Once again he takes away my ability to control what is my own: I am frozen in place, I cannot move.

I have been here before, I know how to fight him. His attention is entirely upon Legolas and so I begin the long and painful battle for my own body; to be master again within my own flesh. It cannot be rushed, but I have never felt so helpless and so angry before. I nurture the feeling… it helps.

"Have them step back," Legolas instructs, stopping beyond reach of the lad and nodding with his head toward the family.

"You think me a fool," Callen shakes his head, but he is eager… too eager. He sees himself victorious and the look on his face sickens me. He is a child, an insane child given all that he covets. He is cruel and grasping and the sickness that I feel in my heart adds all the more to my resolve. It gives me power. I feel my arms again, my leg twitches under my own command.

"I think you a monster," Legolas corrects him. "You are a _thing_. But I give you my word, fully and completely. Allow them back from the edge, you need not release them, and I will come to you."

I cannot believe it, I will not! After everything Legolas has fought for, after everything I have seen him do and endure and withstand I am to lose him to this?

I turn my head as much as I am able and I see what his father has to say about this, but what I see gives me strength. I feel shame curl in my gut. Thranduil stands ready, his sword drawn, and perhaps a few weeks ago I would not have been able to read the look on his face but now I can. To any he might seem furious – indeed he is furious – but there is more there. He is patient, he is waiting. He trusts his son and he is ready. It is the trust I should already have in him, it is the same thing as I should be feeling but it is not, and I do not know why. Perhaps I was ready to believe that after all of this, the elf can only endure so much. Perhaps I do not know him so well after all.

I look back at my friend, and all of that is gone in an instant.

Callen nods, allows the family to step back from the ridge and in that moment my eyes lock with those of my friend. I see it all, right there in a moment. I know what I am to do because I _do_ know him, I must trust in that. I must understand better the reliance my friend has upon me. I must have better trust in my own worth because Legolas sees something that I do not; Legolas sees the friend that I wish to be and doubts it not at all.

I fight Callen, I fight for control of my own body because when Legolas has need of me, I fully intend to be ready.

Callen's weakness is his own avarice. It is in the blind triumph that I see in his face now, for he sees nothing but Legolas. He sees only his own hunger, his own desire for what my friend carries within him and it blinds him to everything else. It blinds him to the steel in the elf's eyes, and he does not understand that we will do anything – _anything_ – to stop him. He does not understand friendship or family, he does not know our hearts completely. He may be able to read them, but he does not understand them.

Once the family are away from the edge – safer, if not completely safe – Legolas steps forward. They are a breath away from one another now and Callen reaches out, reaches forward, and places his hand against the elf's chest. Again, the movement sickens me. Again, that look of need and _want_ upon the lad's face makes my stomach curl but his attention is entirely taken now. I can move again, although my limbs feel like lead I can fight them into movement and I tense, I am ready. I must trust in the elf.

I see something shift in the air and I feel every hair upon my body rise with it. There is pressure, like a brewing thunder storm in the height of summer. It is heavy and painful and makes every nerve thrum within me. With the rising of the pressure I feel again emotions that are not my own: I feel want and need, I feel eagerness and a dark glee. I am _so very hungry_.

They are unwanted feelings, I do not want to experience anything the same as this monstrous boy. I feel sickness rising in my throat but I choke it down when I see something else.

There is a Shadow rising from my friend.

It is a wisp, a feather touch of what I have seen before but I know this Shadow: I know it so very well that I cannot help but recognise it. It rises into the air and Legolas _screams. _Everything happens then.

The elf allows himself to be stricken only long enough to allow Callen a measure of his own triumph. Any sooner and the lad would be ready for us, now he is fully immersed in what he does but by Eru I cannot imagine how the elf finds strength to do what he does. The Shadow – a splinter within his soul – has been torn free and hangs about him like oil in water, hissing and spitting in fear and rage at what is being done to it. The Song of Iluvatar, the very life and breath and heart of an elf is gone from him – stolen and torn away. He is hollow and empty, left ragged and alone for the first time in all of his years. Of course, it does not stop him.

Legolas reaches and grabs the hand upon his chest. He twists it and wrenches it cruelly and Callen cries out, shocked and hurt as he tips to one side. His feet are swept out from beneath him in a lightning move, no less graceful for all the elf endures, but although Callen lands on his back heavily it seems we have misjudged him. He is slight and young, but not without his own experience.

He twists as he lands, one hand already extending again but this time he does not reach out with greed or want. This time he clenches one fist and makes a ripping motion, his face a twisted mask of hatred and wrath. This time the sound that Legolas makes is beyond pain, he cannot scream for he has no breath left to him. The elf drops to the ground, and although he remains upon his knees he is senseless. He clutches at his chest as though his heart is being torn out and still I see the Shadow there, still I see it – un-moored and writhing in the air. There is a bleeding wound somewhere deep in my friend's fëa, and there is no Song to comfort him.

Callen is to his feet quickly, scrambling in mud and water so that he is ready when we reach him. He has no time or chance to concentrate on what he does, no time for skill or finesse. He cannot take us over the way that he has before, but what he does instead is no better for us. It is a hammer upon a forge: we are barraged by emotions, by long forgotten remembrances magnified a thousand times. I feel grief hit me in the gut like a physical blow, a hundred thousand times worse than I have ever felt it before. It is enough to distract me, if not stop me, and so the boy is beyond my reach and knocking me to the floor before I can get my breath back.

Calder is suddenly fighting the man – the one who has already been taken over – who has left his family and now fights with an oddly blank face, eerie in its emptiness. Calder will not harm the man so the fight cannot be ended quickly, but it is enough to distract him.

Faelwen comes at the boy with her knives drawn but in a heartbeat the woman is there in front of him, a human shield. Faelwen turns at the last moment, deflecting her attack in a graceful movement but it takes time that we do not have. I am back to my feet and I am still confused, still struggling to rein my heart back into place. Do I go to help Legolas? Do I assist Calder or Faelwen? We are all too close to one another, we are a jumble now that the man and the woman are here confusing matters even further.

Thranduil comes upon the lad and now here is the test. The woodland king is cold and angry, but he is also very old and very well used to his heart. He has so many, many long years of his own grief and frustrations and rage. I see the lad try the same trick as was used upon me, I see Thranduil waver for only a moment as his own emotions are set against him but it does not stop him. He is too strong and too old to be stopped by doubt or fear, grief or anger.

I see surprise and then annoyance upon Callen's face. He remains back from the king, stepping away, and instead tries the same trick as he has used against Calder and Faelwen. The woman throws herself at the king who spares no thought or care in striking her to the ground. She falls without a sound, no cry at all, and then when the man comes at him as well he is dispatched with the same efficiency. The king moves like grass in a wind, movement flowing into movement, restrained violence and grace until both husband and wife lie low. They bleed, they are unconscious, but they live.

I do not know what to do with myself! Thranduil is frightening right now and we have all stopped. We stand, unsure as to what is about to happen. The woodland king advances on the lad, sword held lightly in one hand, and in the rain and the wind he is truly terrible. I will freely admit, I fear him right now and so does Callen. He steps away, back, just as Thranduil advances upon him.

"That is my son," he says quietly, indicating the elf still broken upon the ground by my side. If I had been enjoying the look of doubt and fear upon Callen's face, it is there no longer. His face twists into an animal snarl, visceral and cruel.

"I am _hungry!_" he spits. "You know _nothing _of how it feels. Who are you to deny me what I can freely take?"

Thranduil says nothing, for he does not need to. He grips the hilt of his sword with both hands and the answer is there in the air for any to read. He is a father, he is a protector… he is a king.

His sword is swift, but Callen is not without speed of his own. The blade sweeps down and catches him across his chest, I cannot see how deep or how grievous but the lad throws himself back and to the ground and is then up again, as though he has not been hurt at all. He rolls free, a jackrabbit chased by a wolf. Thranduil is fast upon his heels but Callen is desperate now – things are beyond any control he may have had.

This time when we are caught it is clumsy and artless: I am frozen in my boots, but this time it is as though the very sky weighs upon me. I cannot move… I cannot breathe.

It is Faelwen, Thranduil and I. All three of us are stopped in our tracks and heaving for breath that we cannot take, I cannot pull any air from around me at all and I feel blind panic as I sink to the ground. Callen tears one of Faelwen's blades from her hands – she is powerless to stop him – and he is upon his brother in seconds. A lightning flash of movement, quicksilver and swift and I would cry out if I could. I have no breath, I can see only dancing darkness in my vision but I can see quite clearly when Callen plunges the blade into his brother's gut.

I hear Legolas. He is unaffected by this crushing pressure, this weight that is driving even the air from my body. He cries out in refusal, in grief as Calder and Callen are united just for one moment. Calder grips at the blade nestled in his stomach, Callen holds it there and they are face to face for a heartbeat. The rain hammers down upon them, the wind roars in the trees but all is still. The two brothers stand together, a growing stain of red between them.

Calder reaches up and touches his brother's face, the gentlest of movements. It is an older brother giving comfort to the younger, but his own blood is smeared upon Callen's face as the murderous lad twists an expression of anger and hate. It is visceral and wild, there is no love there, and when Calder drops to the ground, Callen lets him go.

The younger brother stands still for a moment, his shoulders heaving beneath the hammering rain. He reaches up and wipes his brother's blood from his face, touches at his own chest where his own wound is staining his clothes in a wash of red. He looks at his hands where the blood mingles and mixes, diluted by rain but united in a way he and his sibling never have been before.

Something strange is happening – there is an odd luminescence at his hands where the blood mixes but I do not think that Callen notices. He drops his hands to his sides but I can still see it; it is faint but I have not mistaken it. The staining on his hands and his clothes – everywhere there is blood. It glows for a moment, like the faintest moonlight, but then it is gone and I have no time to think on it. No time to think on what I have seen at all.

Callen comes to himself and turns his gaze toward Thranduil. He watches the king, prone and gasping and only moments from losing his own consciousness. He watches him with an odd look on his face, Faelwen's stolen blade still in his tight grip, and when he begins to walk purposefully toward Thranduil Legolas lets out another cry. It is a frightening sound. He would die to protect his king, I know this is truth and not simply pretty words. He would die to protect him, he would tear down the very heavens to keep his father safe.

As Callen approaches the king, helpless upon the rain battered ground, Legolas' cry is an animal roar of wounded rage. He is up, he trips and falls in the mud. He staggers and is back up, fighting his own failing body he trips to his feet, gains a purchase there and then he is running. When he barrels into the lad he does not stop.

I see what is to happen. I see it clearly and I find whatever strength is still left to my limbs. There is none, but I am after them in any case. I move to intercept their flight and I grab at Legolas, I grab at my friend because if I can save him then I will. If I can do anything at all, then I will.

Legolas and Calder go over the edge of the ravine, and although I try to catch them I cannot. The speed and force of their fall is too great for me, we tumble and I try to arrest their flight, and instead I am taken with them.

All three of us go over the edge.

TBC

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**Hey all, anyone still talking to me?**

**I'm not going to lie, this chapter has given me some difficulties. Giving it a once over ready to edit it enough for posting I realised that there were certain places that just didn't flow well at all. I've hacked and slashed it to pieces - hence the delay - but there are still bits that I'm not 100% with. I really do need to just post it though, because I can't for the life of me work out what's wrong and I've been chased a few times which I feel a bit guilty about. It's possibly just been read over too many times. Hopefully that's what it is! I welcome any feedback that anyone might have.**

**Anyway. I did kind of warn you all, although I didn't mention how short this chapter is compared to the others. I am doubly sorry. Kudos to Lindir's Ghost who figured out who Callen was about a million chapters ago, I hope it was a surprise to one or two of you and I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I'd love to hear back from you on this one; I especially welcome thoughts on Faelwen and Legolas because their relationship is probably just as much a mystery to me as it is to you. I'd also like to hear from you on Calder if possible, excepting what he's just done, because we're about halfway through what's written so far (121k words and counting, guys. Stay with me!) and I'd be interested in your thoughts on him at this point. **

**I promised myself I wouldn't keep blathering on in my Author's Notes, I have failed again. I'm off.**

**I really hope you enjoyed it, I hope we're all still on speaking terms, I'm sorry to leave you where I have and I hope you all have a wonderful day. **

**MyselfOnly **


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